THE  LADIES1  PAGEA? 


V.  LUCAS 


o<z> 


THE    LADIES'    PAGEANT 


BY  THE   SAME  AUTHOR 

THE  OPEN  ROAD 
THE  FRIENDLY  TOWN 
THE  GENTLEST  ART 
FIRESIDE  AND  SUNSHINE 
CHARACTER  AND  COMEDY 
LISTENER'S  LURE 
THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  LAMB 
ANNE'S  TERRIBLE  GOOD-NATURE 
OVER  BEMERTON'S  :   An  Easy-going 
Chronicle. 


THE 
LADIES' 
PAGEANT 


COPYRIGHT,  1908, 
Bv   THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY. 

Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  October,  19.38. 


S.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  C< 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


MY  daughter,  Mrs.  Holland,  was  confined  three  or 
four  days  ago  of  a  little  girl,  and  is  doing  very  well. 
I  am  glad  it  is  a  girl ;  all  the  little  boys  ought  to 

be  put  to  death. 

Sydney  Smith 


2018938 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

"  IN  THE  BEGINNING "      .    F.  W.  Bain .        .    ; 

I.  THE  BUDS 


THE  WORLD'S  LILY 

Lord  Tennyson     . 

j 
3 

LOUISA      

IV.  Wordsworth   . 

4 

LITTLE  PRINCESS  ANNE   . 

Thomas  Fuller     .        . 

4 

LITTLE  Miss  POPE   . 

„ 

5 

MISTRESS  MARGARET  HUSSEY  . 

John  Skelton 

6 

MISTRESS  CHARLOTTE  PULTENEY 

Ambrose  Philips   . 

7 

MISTRESS  MARY  PRIDEAUX 

William  Strode    .        . 

8 

A  YOUNG  LADY  FIVE  MONTHS 

OLD       .        .        .        .    .     . 

Winthrop  M.  Praed     . 

9 

NEIGHBOUR  NELLY   . 

Robert  B.  Brough 

ii 

MARJORIE  FLEMING  .        .       < 

Dr.  John  Brown  . 

12 

II.  VIRGINAL 

IANTHE     ..... 

W  S.  Landor 

17 

LUCY         .        .        .        , 

John  Ruskin 

/ 

17 

A  PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT 

W.  Wordsworth   . 

19 

THE  MAIDEN  OF  THE  LAKES  . 

Hartley  Coleridge 

20 

MARIAN     .        .        .        .  •     . 

George  Meredith   . 

20 

Table  of  Contents 

III.   THE   POETS   AND   THE   IDEAL 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  SONNETS   . 

PAGE 

W.  Shakespeare    .         .       22 

BEN'S  IDEAL     .... 

Ben  Jonson  ...       23 

CASTARA    

William  Habington       .       23 

CAMPION'S  LADY 

Thomas  Campion          .       25 

"MY  DEAR  MISTRESS"    . 

Earl  of  Rochester  .         .       26 

ROSALYNE         .... 

Thomas  Lodge       .         .       26 

SAMELA     

Robert  Greene       .         .       28 

MY  LUVE          .... 

Robert  Burns        .         .       29 

JULIA         

Robert  Herrick     .         .       29 

THE  SHEPHERD'S  NYMPH 

Earl  of  Oxenford         .       30 

DlAPHENIA 

H  Constable          .         .       32 

A  LADY  SWEET  AND  KIND 

Anon  33 

CHERRY  RIPE    .... 

Thomas  Campion          .       33 

A    DESCRIPTION    OF    A    MOST 

NOBLE  LADY 

John  Hey  wood      .         .       34 

THREE  ROSES   .... 

W.  S.  Landor       .         .       37 

MARGUERITE     .... 

Matthew  Arnold  .         .       37 

MY  LOVE  . 

T  R  Lowell          .         .       40 

AMATURUS         .... 

W.  R  Cory  ...      41 

MAUD 

/  nrd   WMWI/C/IW.                              A  1 

IV.   A   STATESMAN'S   IDEAL 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  

Edmund  Burke    .         .       45 

MRS.  BURKE     .... 

7.  Macknight       .         .       47 

V.   A   WEST-COUNTRY  BEVY 

THE  MILK-MAID  o'  THE  FARM 

William  Barnes  .         .       49 

THE  MAID  VOR  MY  BRIDE 

•       50 

BLACKMWORE  MAIDENS    . 

..52 

MY  LOVE  is  GOOD  .        . 

•      53 

Table  of  Contents 


RUTH  A-RIDEN  .... 

PAGE 

William  Barnes  .         .       54 

THE  DEVON  MAID   . 

John  Keats  ...       56 

VI.   DAUGHTERS  OF  ERIN 

AN  IRISH  GIRL        .        .       . 

V.  V.  V.                .         .       58 

PEG  OF  LIMAVADDY 

W.  M.  Thackeray         .       59 

NORAH  CREINA         . 

Thomas  Moore     .         .       65 

THE  STAR  OF  SLANE 

Anon.  ....       66 

MRS.  VESEY      .... 

T.Macknight       .        .       68 

A  THOROUGH-BRED  . 

X.         ....       69 

VII.  THE  TENDER  NORTH 

ROBBIE'S  SUM  OF  THE  WHOLE 

MATTER         .... 

Robert  Burns        .         .       73 

Miss  JANE  SCOTT 

John  Gay                              75 

BONNIE  LESLEY 

Robert  Burns        .         .       75 

MARY  MORISON 

•         •       76 

JEANIE  MORRISON     . 

William  Motherwell     .       77 

HIGHLAND  MARY 

Robert  Burns        .         .       80 

„                   ... 

Joaquin  Miller     .         .       8  1 

JEAN  

Robert  Burns        .         .       82 

VIII.   WAYSIDE   FLOWERS 

THE  GIRLS  OF  BETHLEHEM 

A.  W.  Kinglake   .         .       84 

FAYAWAY  

Herman  Melville          .       86 

PHILLIS     

Drummond    of    Haw- 

thornden    ...       88 

MOLLY  MOG     .... 

John  Gay     ...       89 

THE  ROMANY  GIRL  . 

R.  W.  Emerson    .         .       90 

ANN  

Thomas  de  Quincey      .       92 

Table  of  Contents 


IX.  THE  HEROINES 

PAGE 

GODIVA W.  S.  Landor       .  .      95 

JOAN  OF  ARC    ....     Thomas  de  Quincey  .       98 

„              ....     Andrew  Lang       .  .     100 

MADAME  ROLAND     .        .        .     Thomas  Carlyle   .  .     101 

„                    ...     W.  S.  Landor       .  .104 

CHARLOTTE  CORD  AY         .        .     Thomas  Carlyle   .  .105 

„                  ...     W,  S.  Landor       .  .     1 10 

FLORENCE  NIGHTINGALE  .        .    H.  W.  Longfellow  .     1 10 

.     Robert  Holden  .     112 


X.   SHAKESPEARE'S  WOMEN 

SHAKESPEARE'S  WOMEN    .        .  John  Ruskin        .        -113 

PERDITA Shakespeare .        .         .116 

JULIET  AND  HER  NURSE  .        .  „          .        .        .116 

JULIET'S  NURSE         .        .         .  Walter  De  la  Marc      .     119 

MARINA Shakespeare ,         .         .     1 20 

SYLVIA „          ...     120 

LADY  PERCY     ....  „          ...     121 

THE  LADY  BLANCH  ...  „          ...     122 

DESDEMONA      ....  „          ...     123 

CLEOPATRA        ....  „          ...     125 

CORDELIA          ....  „          ...     127 

VIOLA „          ...     129 

BIANCA „          ...     130 

SHAKESPEARE'S  WOMEN    .        .  Heinrich  Heine    .        .130 


XI.  SIR  WALTER'S  LADIES 

SIR  WALTER'S  LADIES      .        .    John  Ruskin        .  .132 

REBECCA Sir  Walter  Scott  .  .133 

Di  VERNON      ....                „              .  134 


Table  of  Contents 


CATHERINE  SETON 


Sir  Walter  Scott 


ROSE  BRADWARDINE 

„ 

.     136 

MISTRESS  BETHUNE  BALIOL     . 

„ 

•     138 

VARIA       ..... 

.     142 

XII.   A   SPECIAL  TRIO 

BEATRIX    

W.  M.  Thackeray 

.     144 

CLARA  MIDDLETON  . 

George  Meredith   . 

.     146 

Miss  JANE  Cox 

John  Keats  . 

.     148 

XIII.  GOOD 

COMPANY 

THE  PRIORESS  .... 

Chaucer 

.     150 

HESTER  JOHNSON 

Dean  Swift  . 

.     152 

MRS.   DlNGLEY  .... 

,, 

.     152 

BELINDA   ..... 

A.  Pope 

.     154 

THE  BERRYS      .... 

Horace  Walpole    . 

•     J55 

MARGARET  FORDYCE 

R.  B.  Sheridan     . 

.     156 

Miss  WALDRON        . 

George  Crabbe  the 

Younger   . 

•     158 

LADY  ASHBURTON     . 

Charles  Greville   . 

.     158 

„                  ... 

Lord  Houghton 

.     1  60 

STAFF  NURSE:   OLD  STYLE 

W.  £.  Henley 

•     163 

„           NEW  STYLE     . 

»                   • 

.     163 

MRS.  GROTE     .... 

Fanny  Kemble      . 

.     164 

MRS.  PROCTER  .... 

Henry  James 

.     166 

LADY  EVERINGHAM  .        .       . 

B.  Disraeli  . 

.     169 

XIV.  THE 

GENTLE 

LADY  MORTON         .        ,       '« 

Sir  Henry  Wotton 

.     170 

SISTER  SAINT  LUKE          .       -. 

John  Hay     . 

.     170 

EDITH 

Lord  Tennyson    . 

Table  of  Contents 


MADAM  LIBERALITY 
VISITOR     

Mrs.  Ewing 
IV.  E.  Henley 

.     172 

•     175 
176 

XV.   MOTHERS 

EVE 

John  Milton 

•     X77 

THE  MOTHER  OF  MARCELLA    . 

Cervantes 

.     178 

A  ROMAN  WIFE 

T.  E.  Brown 

.     178 

DAME  HESTER  TEMPLE    . 

Thomas  Fuller 

.     179 

A  FORECAST      .... 

W.  Wordsworth   . 

.     180 

GEORGE  HERBERT'S  MOTHER    . 

John  Donne 

.     180 

POPE'S  MOTHER        .        .        . 

A.  Pope 

.     182 

SUSANNA  WESLEY     . 

Susanna  Wesley    . 

.     182 

COWPER'S  MOTHER  . 

William   Cowper  . 

.     185 

A  ROMAN  MOTHER  . 

T.  E.  Brown 

.     189 

XVI.  THE   WIFE   PERFECT 

XVII.    FAMILY   FRIENDS 

THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS 

W.  Shenstone 

.     197 

THE  NURSE       .... 

Katherine  Tynan 

.      200 

PREW,  HIS  MAID 

Robert  Herrick      . 

.      201 

ALISON  CUNNINGHAM 

R.  L.  Stevenson    . 

.      201 

MISTRESS  NICELY:  A  PATTERN 

FOR  HOUSEKEEPERS 

Thomas  Hood 

.      202 

SUPHY  JOHNSTON 

Lord  Cockburn 

.      203 

THE  OLD  VIEW 

Sir  R.  Steeh 

.      205 

... 

J.  Addison  . 

.      205 

XVIII.  THE  ADVENTURERS 

LADY  HESTER  STANHOPE 

A.  W.  Kinglake  . 

.      206 

ISOPEL  BERNERS 

George  Borrow 

.      208 

X 

Table  of  Contents 


XIX.  THALIA  AND   MELPOMENE 


A   SlNGING-GlRL 

.     /.  W.  Mackail     . 

PAGE 
212 

PEG  WOFFINGTON     . 

.     Anon  

212 

„ 

David  Garrick     .         , 

2I3 

MRS.  BRACEGIRDLE  . 

.     Colley  Gibber 

214 

KITTY  CI.IVE     . 

Various  Writers  . 

214 

MRS.  SIDDONS  . 

.     Jo  tin  Wilson 

216 

» 

.     W.  Hazlitt    . 

217 

MRS.  JORDAN    . 

.     Leigh  Hunt  . 

218 

MRS.  SHERIDAN 

.     C.  R.  Leslie  . 

2I9 

„            ... 

Thomas  Moore 

2  2O 

MALIBRAN 

Fanny  Kemble 

22O 

RACHEL     .... 

•                 »                  • 

223 

.     Matthew  Arnold  . 

224 

XX.   ADDISON   AND 

STEELE'S   GALLERY 

LEONORA  .        .        .        . 

.     J.  Addison    .         . 

227 

CLARINDA 

„            ... 

231 

MRS.  TRUELOVE 

„            ... 

235 

LIDDY       .... 

.     Sir  £.  Steele 

237 

THE  PERVERSE  WIDOW    . 

237 

.    J.  Addison    . 

241 

XXI.   1 

DIANAS 

JULIANA  BERNERS     . 

.      Thomas  Fuller     . 

242 

MRS.  CARELESS 

An  Old  South  Downer 

243 

MRS.  DALYELL  . 

.     Nimrod        .         . 

243 

XXII.   THE 

PARAGONS 

THE  LADY  MARGARET  LEY 

.     John  Milton 

246 

MRS.  ANNE  KILLIGREW    . 

.    John  Dryden 

246 

Table  of  Contents 


RACHEL,  LADY  RUSSELL  . 

PAGE 

Bishop  Burnet      .         .     250 

„ 

Rachel,  Lady  Russell    .     250 

MRS.  GODOLPHIN 

John  Evelyn         .         .251 

DOROTHY  SELBY 

Anon  254 

ANN  BAYNARD 

Timothy  Rogers    .         .     254 

LADY  FITZGERALD    . 

W.  Wordsworth   .         .     256 

FRANCES  DOBBS 

Jeremy  Taylor      .         .257 

INCOGNITA         .... 

Anon  257 

XXIII.   THE   BLUES 

MADGE  NEWCASTLE  . 

Herself         .         .         .258 

MARIA  WYNDHAM    . 

Anon  260 

LYDIA  WHITE  .... 

Wilfred  Whitten  .         .     262 

THE  BLUE  STOCKINGS 

Leigh  Hunt  .         .         .     264 

REGINA'S  MAIDS  OF  HONOUR  . 

Doctor  Maginn     .         .     266 

HARRIET  MARTINEAU 

.     268 

THE  COUNTESS  OF  BLESSINGTON 

Leigh  Hunt  .         .         .     270 

LADY  MORGAN 

Dr.  Maginn         .         .270 

MARIA  EDGEWORTH 

Leigh  Hunt  .         .         .271 

MRS.  NORTON   .... 

Fanny  Kemble      .         .271 

LADY  JOAN  FITZ-WARENE 

B.  Disraeli  .         .         .     273 

LITERARY  LADIES     . 

Joaquin  Miller     .         .     274 

XXIV.   CHARACTERS 

MRS.  FREELAND 

Anon.  ....     275 

MRS.  COTTON    .... 

Horace  Walpole    .         .     275 

MRS.  HOLMAN  .... 

•         •     276 

ANOTHER  WIDOW     . 

Washington  Irving       .     276 

THE  MARCHIONESS  OF  HAMP- 

SHIRE     

B.  Disraeli  .         .         .     277 

MRS.  ELTON     .... 

Jane  Austen           .         .     278 

THE  WIDOW  BLACKET     . 

Charles  Lamb        .         .     283 

Miss  ANNE       .... 

E.V.L.        .         .         .     285 

MEG  MERRILEES 

John  Keals  .         .         .289 

xii 

Table  of  Contents 


XXV.   FRIENDS   OF  THE   COURTLY 


THE  QUEEN  OF  JAMES  i. 

James  i. 

PAGE 
291 

THE  QUEEN  OF  BOHEMIA 

Sir  Henry  Wotton 

292 

LADY  JANE  MAITLAND     . 

W.  Drummond    . 

293 

LUCY,  COUNTESS  OF  BEDFORD  . 

Ben  Jonson  . 

293 

THE  COUNTESS  OF  ANGLESEA  . 

Sir  William  Davenant 

294 

MARY,  LADY  WROTH 

Ben  Jonson  . 

294 

LADY  S  .... 

Thomas  Carew 

295 

THE  LADY  ELIZABETH  HASTINGS 

W.  Congreve 

296 

„ 

Sir  R.  Steele 

297 

HOW   AM    I    LIKE   HER?       . 

W.  M.  Praed 

297 

MRS.  BIDDY  FLOYD  . 

Dean  Swift  . 

299 

BELINDA    

A.  Pope 

299 

XXVI.  SAINTS 

THE  VIRGIN  MARY  . 

W.  Caxton    .         . 

300 

SAINT  EDGBURGH 

Thomas  Ftiller 

302 

SAINT  ZITA       .... 

Reginald  Balfour 

302 

SAINT  CECILIA  .... 

William  Caxton  . 

303 

SAINT  ELIZABETH 

'         ' 

3°3 

XXVII.   IMMORTAL   SISTERS 

MARY  LAMB     .... 

Charles  Lamb 

307 

DOROTHY  WORDSWORTH  . 

W.  Wordsworth   . 

3IO 

„ 

S.  T.  Coleridge     . 

3IO 

EUGENIE  DE  GUERIN 

Matthew  Arnold  . 

3" 

XXVIII.  AUNTS  AND 

GRANDMOTHERS 

AUNTIE     

R.  L.  Stevenson    . 

3H 

AUNT  CAROLINE 

Alfred  Cochrane   . 

3H 

OLD  AUNT  MARY 

J.  Whitcomb  Riley        . 

317 

Table  of  Contents 


PAGE 

THE  AUNT       .... 

/.  G.  Whittier      . 

320 

AUNT  ANNE 

Mrs.  W.  K.  Clifford    . 

•721 

GRANNY    

J.  Whitcomb  Riley 

o^* 

323 

CRAMMER'S  SHOES    . 

William  Barnes  . 

325 

To  MY  GRANDMOTHER 

Frederick  Locker  . 

326 

A  GENTLEWOMAN  OF  THE  OLD 

SCHOOL         .... 

Austin  Dobson 

328 

BEAUTIFUL  WOMEN  . 

Walt  Whitman    . 

332 

CHAUCER'S  PRAISE  OF  WOMEN 

Chaucer 

332 

XXIX.  THE 

TYRANTS 

SARAH,    DUCHESS    OF    MARL- 

BOROUGH       .... 

Horace  Walpole    . 

334 

IADY  CORK      .... 

James  Bo  swell 

334 

»               .... 

Fanny  Kemble 

335 

MRS.  DUNDAS  .... 

Lord  Cockburn 

337 

LADY  DON  AND  MRS.  ROCHEAD 

OF  INVERLEITH      . 

Lord  Cockburn 

338 

THE  OLD  SCOTTISH  LADIES     . 

Dean  Ramsay 

340 

Miss  MACNABB 

„ 

342 

Miss  HELEN  CARNEGY     . 

>» 

343 

LADY  HOLLAND 

Charles  Greville  . 

345 

... 

Thomas  Creevey   . 

347 

XXX.   DEAD 

LADIES 

BALLADE  OF  DEAD  LADIES 

A.  Lang 

349 

CLAUDIA  HOMONCEA 

/.  W.  Mackail     . 

35° 

ELIZABETH  L.  H.     . 

Ben  Jonson  . 

351 

MARGARET  RATCLIF^E 

„            ... 

35i 

MARGARET        .        .        . 

W.  Drummond    . 

352 

LADY  MARIE    .... 

William  Strode    . 

352 

MRS,  MARY  NEUDHAM     . 

,, 

353 

Table  of  Contents 

PAGE 

LADY  MARY  VILLIERS      .        .  Thomas  Carew     .        .    353 

ANNE  WALTON          .        .        .    Anon 354 

M'»is.  MARGARET  PASTON  .         .  John  Dryden        .        .     354 

MRS.  CORBET                             .  A.  Pope        .        .        .355 

TERNISSA W.  S.  Landor       .        .     355 

ROSE  AYLMER  ....  „                         •    356 

HESTER Charles  Lamb       .        .     356 

UNDER  THE  VIOLETS        .        .  O.  W.  Holmes      .        .357 

MY  KATE           .         .         .         .  £.  Barrett  Browning  .     359 

CHARLOTTE  LOCKER          .         .  Frederick  Locker  .         .     360 

LADY  LOUISA  CONOLLY    .         .  Sir  George  T.  Napier  .     361 

CONCLUSION 
ALMA  MATER   .        .        .        .     T.  E.  Brown       .        .    367 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


XV 


I  WILL  be  buried  with  this  inscription  over  me : 
"  Here  lies  C.  L.,  the  Woman-hater"  —  I  mean  that 
hated  One  Woman :  for  the  rest,  God  bless  them, 
and  when  He  makes  any  more,  make  'em  prettier. 
Charles  Lamb 


THE    LADIES'    PAGEANT 


"IN   THE   BEGINNING " 

IN  the  beginning,  when  Twashtri  came  to  the  creation 
of  woman,  he  found  that  he  had  exhausted  his 
materials  in  the  making  of  man,  and  that  no  solid  ele- 
ments were  left. 

In  this  dilemma,  after  profound  meditation,  he  did  as 
follows. 

He  took  the  rotundity  of  the  moon,  and  the  curves  of 
creepers,  and  the  clinging  of  tendrils,  and  the  trembling  of 
grass,  and  the  slenderness  of  the  reed,  and  the  bloom 
of  flowers,  and  the  lightness  of  leaves,  and  the  tapering 
of  the  elephant's  trunk,  and  the  glances  of  deer,  and  the 
clustering  rows  of  bees,  and  the  joyous  gaiety  of  sun- 
beams, and  the  weeping  of  clouds,  and  the  fickleness  of 
the  winds,  and  the  timidity  of  the  hare,  and  the  vanity 
of  the  peacock,  and  the  softness  of  the  parrot's  bosom, 
and  the  hardness  of  adamant,  and  the  sweetness  of 
honey,  and  the  cruelty  of  the  tiger,  and  the  warm  glow 
of  fire,  and  the  coldness  of  snow,  and  the  chattering  of 
jays,  and  the  cooing  of  the  k6kila,  and  the  hypocrisy  of 
the  crane,  and  the  fidelity  of  the  chakrawdka ;  and  com- 
pounding all  these  together,  he  made  woman  and  gave 
her  to  man. 


The   Ladies'    Pageant 

But  after  one  week,  man  came  to  •  him,  and  said : 
"  Lord,  this  creature  that  you  have  given  me  makes  my 
life  miserable.  She  chatters  incessantly,  and  teases  me 
beyond  endurance,  never  leaving  me  alone :  and  she 
requires  incessant  attention,  and  takes  all  my  time  up, 
and  cries  about  nothing,  and  is  always  idle ;  and  so  I 
have  come  to  give  her  back  again,  as  I  cannot  live  with 
her." 

So  Twashtri  said  :  "  Very  well :  "  and  he  took  her  back. 

Then  after  another  week,  man  came  again  to  him, 
and  said :  "  Lord,  I  find  that  my  life  is  very  lonely 
since  I  gave  you  back  that  creature.  I  remember  how 
she  used  to  dance  and  sing  to  me,  and  look  at  me  out 
of  the  corner  of  her  eye,  and  play  with  me,  and  cling  to 
me ;  and  her  laughter  was  music,  and  she  was  beautiful 
to  look  at,  and  soft  to  touch :  so  give  her  back  to  me 
again." 

So  Twashtri  said :  "  Very  well : "  and  gave  her  back 
again. 

Then  after  only  three  days,  man  came  back  to  him 
again,  and  said  :  "  Lord,  I  know  not  how  it  is  ;  but  after 
all,  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  she  is  more  of  a 
trouble  than  a  pleasure  to  me :  so  please  take  her  back 
again." 

But  Twashtri  said  :  "  Out  on  you !  Be  off  !  I  will  have 
no  more  of  this.  You  must  manage  how  you  can." 

Then  man  said  :  "  But  I  cannot  live  with  her." 

And  Twashtri  replied  :  "  Neither  could  you  live  without 
her." 

And  he  turned  his  back  on  man,  and  went  on  with  his 
work. 

Then  man  said:  "What  is  to  be  done?  for  I  cannot 
live  either  with  or  without  her.1' 

F.  W.  Bain 

2 


I 

THE    BUDS 

O,  very  beautiful  are  little  girls, 
And  goodly  to  the  sight.  /.  G-  Saxe 


Erotion  <^y 


UNDERNEATH  this  greedy  stone 
Lies  little  sweet  Erotion  ; 
Whom  the  Fates,  with  hearts  as  cold, 
Nipp'd  away  at  six  years  old. 
Thou,  whoever  thou  may'st  be, 
That  hast  this  small  field  after  me, 
Let  the  yearly  rites  be  paid 
To  her  little  slender  shade  ; 
So  shall  no  disease  or  jar 
Hurt  thy  house,  or  chill  thy  Lar  ; 
But  this  tomb  here  be  alone 
The  only  melancholy  stone.  Leigh  Hunt 

The  World's  Lily        *o        <o        <^y        <i*        <: 

(The  dying  Becket  speaks) 

T^HERE  was  a  little  fair-hair'd  Norman  maid 
Lived  in  my  mother's  house  :  if  Rosamund  is 
The  world's  rose,  as  her  name  imports  her,  she 
Was  the  world's  lily.  Tennyson 

3 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

Louisa  <ix       '^       ^y       o       -Qy       ^cv       o 

I  MET  Louisa  in  the  shade ; 
And  having  seen  that  lovely  maid, 
Why  should  I  fear  to  say 
That  she  is  ruddy,  fleet,  and  strong ; 
And  down  the  rocks  can  leap  along, 
Like  rivulets  in  May? 

And  she  hath  smiles  to  earth  unknown ; 
Smiles,  that  with  motion  of  their  own 

Do  spread,  and  sink,  and  rise ; 
That  come  and  go  with  endless  play, 
And  ever,  as  they  pass  away, 

Are  hidden  in  her  eyes. 

She  loves  her  fire,  her  cottage-home ; 
Yet  o'er  the  moorland  will  she  roam 

In  weather  rough  and  bleak ; 
And,  when  against  the  wind  she  strains, 
Oh,  might  I  kiss  the  mountain  rains, 

That  sparkle  on  her  cheek  ! 

Take  all  that's  mine  "  beneath  the  moon," 
If  I  with  her  but  half  a  noon 

May  sit  beneath  the  walls 
Of  some  old  cave,  or  mossy  nook, 
When  up  she  winds  along  the  brook 

To  hunt  the  waterfalls. 

IV.  Wordsworth 

Little  Princess  Anne    ^v       <>x       >Qy        <s>-        ^y 

ANNE,  third  daughter  to  King  Charles  the  First  and 
Queen  Mary,  was  born  at  Saint  James's,  March   17, 
anno   Domini   1637.      She    was   a  very   Pregnant   Lady 
4 


The  Buds 

above  her  age,  and  died  in  her  infancy  when  not  full 
four  years  old.  Being  minded  by  those  about  her  to 
call  upon  God  even  when  the  pangs  of  Death  were  upon 
her  ;  "/  am  not  able"  saith  she,  "to  say  my  long  prayer 
(meaning  the  Lorcfs-Prayer'),  but  I  will  say  my  short 
one,  Lighten  mine  eyes,  O  Lord,  lest  I  sleep  the  sleep  of 
death"  This  done,  the  little  lamb  gave  up  the  ghost. 

Thomas  Fuller 


Little  Miss  Pope        *o        *^y         <^y        *o        <^y 

KING  JAMES  came  in  Progress  to  the  House  of  Sir 
William  Pope,  Knight,  when  his  Lady  was  lately 
delivered  of  a   daughter,  which    Babe   was   presented  to 
King  James  with  this  paper  of  verses  in  her  hand :  — 

"  See  this  little  Mistress  here, 
Did  never  sit  in  Peter's  ch;iir, 
Or  a  triple  Crown  did  wear, 
And  yet  she  is  a  Pope. 

No  Benefice  she  ever  sold, 
Nor  did  dispense  with  sins  for  Gold, 
She  hardly  is  a  Sevenight  Old, 
And  yet  she  is  a  Pope. 

No  King  her  feet  did  ever  kiss, 

Or  had  from  her  worse  look  than  this ; 

Nor  did  she  ever  hope, 

To  saint  one  with  a  Rope. 

And  yet  she  is  a  Pope. 

A  Female  Pope  you'l  say ;  a  second  Joan  ? 
No,  sure;  she  is  Pope  Innocent,  or  none." 

Thomas  Fuller 
5 


The  Ladies'  Pageant 


Mistress  Margaret  Hussey 


MERRY  Margaret 
As  midsummer  flower, 
Gentle  as  falcon 
Or  hawk  of  the  tower  : 
With  solace  and  gladness, 
Much  mirth  and  no  madness, 
All  good  and  no  badness  ; 

So  joyously, 

So  maidenly, 

So  womanly 

Her  demeaning 

In  everything, 

Far,  far  passing 

That  I  can  indite, 

Or  suffice  to  write 
Of  merry  Margaret 
As  midsummer  flower, 
Gentle  as  falcon 
Or  hawk  of  the  tower. 

As  patient  and  still 
And  as  full  of  good  will 
As  fair  Isaphill, 
Coliander, 
Sweet  pomander, 
Good  Cassander  ; 
Steadfast  of  thought, 
Well  made,  well  wrought, 
Far  may  be  sought, 
Ere  that  ye  can  find 
So  courteous,  so  kind, 
6 


The  Buds 

As  merry  Margaret, 
This  midsummer  flower, 
Gentle  as  falcon 
Or  hawk  of  the  tower. 

John  Skelton 

To  Miss  Charlotte  Pulteney,  in  her  mother's  arms  *o 

TIMELY  blossom,  infant  fair, 
Fondling  of  a  happy  pair, 
Every  morn  and  every  night 
Their  solicitous  delight, 
Sleeping,  waking,  still  at  ease, 
Pleasing,  without  skill  to  please  ; 
Little  gossip,  blithe  and  hale, 
Tattling  many  a  broken  tale, 
Singing  many  a  tuneless  song, 
Lavish  of  a  heedless  tongue. 
Simple  maiden,  void  of  art, 
Babbling  out  the  very  heart, 
Yet  abandon'd  to  thy  will, 
Yet  imagining  no  ill, 
Yet  too  innocent  to  blush, 
Like  the  linnet  in  the  bush, 
To  the  mother-linnet's  note 
Moduling  her  slender  throat, 
Chirping  forth  thy  pretty  joys, 
Wanton  in  the  change  of  toys, 
Like  the  linnet  green,  in  May, 
Flitting  to  each  bloomy  spray. 
Wearied  then  and  glad  of  rest, 
Like  the  linnet  in  the  nest. 
This  thy  happy  present  lot, 
This,  in  time,  will  be  forgot  ; 
7 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

Other  pleasures,  other  cares, 
Ever-busy  Time  prepares ; 
And  thou  shalt  in  thy  daughter  see 
This  picture  once  resembled  thee. 

Ambrose  Philips 


Mistress  Mary  Prideaux      "^y     "^     -"O      *o      "^> 

WEEP  not  because  this  childe  hath  dyed  so  yong, 
But    weepe    because     yourselves    have     livd    so 

long: 

Age  is  not  fild  by  growth  of  time,  for  then 
What  old  man  lives  to  see  th1  estate  of  men  ? 
Who  sees  the  age  of  grande  Methusalem? 
Ten  years  make  us  as  old  as  hundreds  him. 
Ripenesse  is  from  ourselves  :  and  then  wee  dye 
When  nature  hath  obteynde  maturity. 
Summer  and  winter  fruits  there  bee,  and  all 
Not  at  one  time,  but  being  ripe,  must  fall. 
Death  did  not  erre :  your  mourners  are  beguilde ; 
She  dyed  more  like  a  mother  than  a  childe. 
Weigh  the  composure  of  her  pretty  parts : 
Her  gravity  in  childhood ;  all  her  arts 
Of  womanly  behaviour ;  weigh  her  tongue 
So  wisely  measurde,  not  too  short  nor  long ; 
And  to  her  youth  adde  some  few  riches  more, 
She  tooke  upp  now  what  due  was  at  threescore. 
She  livd  seven  years,  our  age's  first  degree  ; 
Journeys  at  first  time  ended  happy  bee ; 
Yet  take  her  stature  with  the  age  of  man, 
They  well  are  fitted  :  both  are  but  a  span. 

William  Strode 


The  Buds 


A  Young  Lady  five  months  old      'Qv        <^y 

MY  pretty,  budding,  breathing  flower, 
Methinks,  if  I  to-morrow, 
Could  manage,  just  for  half  an  hour, 

Sir  Joshua's  brush  to  borrow, 
I  might  immortalise  a  few 
Of  all  the  myriad  graces 
Which  Time,  while  yet  they  all  are  new, 
With  newer  still  replaces. 

I'd  paint,  my  child,  your  deep-blue  eyes, 

Their  quick  and  earnest  flashes ; 
I'd  paint  the  fringe  that  round  them  lies. 

The  fringe  of  long  dark  lashes  ; 
I'd  draw  with  most  fastidious  care 

One  eyebrow,  then  the  other, 
And  that  fair  forehead,  broad  and  fair, 

The  forehead  of  your  mother. 

Fd  oft  retouch  the  dimpled  cheek 

Where  health  in  sunshine  dances ; 
And  oft  the  pouting  lips,  where  speak 

A  thousand  voiceless  fancies ; 
And  the  soft  neck  would  keep  me  long, 

The  neck,  more  smooth  and  snowy 
Than  ever  yet  in  schoolboy's  song 

Had  Caroline  or  Chloe. 

Nor  less  on  those  twin  rounded  arms 
My  new-found  skill  would  linger, 

Nor  less  upon  the  rosy  charms 
Of  every  tiny  finger ; 
9 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

Nor  slight  the  small  feet,  little  one, 

So  prematurely  clever 
That,  though  they  neither  walk  nor  run, 

I  think  they'd  jump  for  ever. 

But  then  your  odd  endearing  ways  — 

What  study  e'er  could  catch  them? 
Your  aimless  gestures,  endless  plays  — 

What  canvas  e'er  could  match  them? 
Your  lively  leap  of  merriment, 

Your  murmur  of  petition, 
Your  serious  silence  of  content, 

Your  laugh  of  recognition. 

Here  were  a  puzzling  toil,  indeed, 

For  Art's  most  fine  creations!  — 
Grow  on,  sweet  baby,  we  will  need, 

To  note  your  transformations, 
No  picture  of  your  form  or  face, 

Your  waking  or  your  sleeping 
But  that  which  Love  shall  daily  trace, 

And  trust  to  Memory's  keeping. 

Hereafter,  when  revolving  years 

Have  made  you  tall  and  twenty, 
And  brought  you  blended  hopes  and  fears, 

And  sighs  and  slaves  in  plenty, 
May  those  who  watch  our  little  saint 

Among  her  tasks  and  duties, 
Feel  all  her  virtues  hard  to  paint 

As  now  we  deem  her  beauties. 

Winthrop  M.  Praed 


The  Buds 


Neighbour  Nelly 


I'M  in  love  with  neighbour  Nelly, 
Though  I  know  she's  only  ten, 
While,  alas!  I'm  eight-and-forty, — 

And  the  marriedest  of  men  ! 
I've  a  wife  who  weighs  me  double, 

I've  three  daughters  all  with  beaus ; 
I've  a  son  with  noble  whiskers, 
Who  at  me  turns  up  his  nose  .  .  . 

She  is  tall,  and  growing  taller, 

She  is  vigorous  of  limb  : 
(You  should  see  her  play  at  cricket 

With  her  little  brother  Jim.) 
She  has  eyes  as  blue  as  damsons, 

She  has  pounds  of  auburn  curls  ; 
She  regrets  the  game  of  leap-frog 

Is  prohibited  to  girls. 

I  adore  my  neighbour  Nelly ; 

I  invite  her  in  to  tea : 
And  I  let  her  nurse  the  baby  — 

All  her  pretty  ways  to  see. 
Such  a  darling  bud  of  woman, 

Yet  remote  from  any  teens, — 
I  have  learn't  from  baby  Nelly 

What  the  girl's  doll-instinct  means. 

Oh !  to  see  her  with  the  baby  ! 

He  adores  her  more  than  I,  — 
How  she  choruses  his  crowing, — 

How  she  hushes  every  cry! 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

How  she  loves  to  pit  his  dimples 
With  her  light  forefinger  deep, 

How  she  boasts  to  me  in  triumph, 
When  she's  got  him  off  to  sleep ! 

We  must  part,  my  neighbour  Nelly, 

For  the  summers  quickly  flee ; 
And  your  middle-aged  admirer 

Must  supplanted  quickly  be. 
Yet  as  jealous  as  a  mother, 

A  distemper'd  cankered  churl, 
I  look  vainly  for  the  setting 

To  be  worthy  such  a  pearl. 

Robert  B.  Brout 


Marjorie  Fleming        <^y        <^>        'Qy        *^y        ^> 

SIR  WALTER  was  in  that  house  almost  every  day, 
and  had  a  key,  so  in  he  and  the  hound  went, 
shaking  themselves  in  the  lobby.  "Marjorie!  Marjorie!" 
shouted  her  friend,  "  where  are  ye,  my  bonnie  wee 
croodlin  doo?"  In  a  moment  a  bright,  eager  child  of 
seven  was  in  his  arms,  and  he  was  kissing  her  all  over. 
Out  came  Mrs.  Keith.  "  Come  yer  ways  in,  Wattie." 
"  No,  not  now.  I  am  going  to  take  Marjorie  wi'  me,  and 
you  may  come  to  your  tea  in  Duncan  Roy's  sedan,  and 
bring  the  bairn  home  in  your  lap."  "  Tak'  Marjorie, 
and  it  on-ding  o1  snawl"  said  Mrs.  Keith.  He  said  to 
himself,  "On-ding  —  that's  odd  —  that  is  the  very  word." 
"  Hoot,  awa  !  look  here,"  and  he  displayed  the  corner  of 
his  plaid,  made  to  hold  lambs  —  (the  true  shepherd's 
plaid,  consisting  of  two  breadths  sewed  together,  and 

12 


The  Buds 

uncut  at  one  end,  making  a  poke  or  cul  de  sac).  "  Tak' 
yer  lamb,"  said  she,  laughing  at  the  contrivance,  and  so 
the  Pet  was  first  well  happit  up,  and  then  put,  laughing 
silently,  into  the  plaid-neuk,  and  the  shepherd  strode  off 
with  his  lamb,  —  Maida  gambolling  through  the  snow,  and 
running  races  in  his  mirth. 

Didn't  he  face  "the  angry  airt,"  and  make  her  bield 
his  bosom,  and  into  his  own  room  with  her,  and  lock  the 
door,  and  out  with  the  warm,  rosy,  little  wifie,  who  took 
it  all  with  great  composure!  There  the  two  remained 
for  three  or  more  hours,  making  the  house  ring  with  their 
laughter;  you  can  fancy  the  big  man's  and  Maidie's 
laugh.  Having  made  the  fire  cheery,  he  set  her  down 
in  his  ample  chair,  and  standing  sheepishly  -before  her, 
began  to  say  his  lesson,  which  happened  to  be  —  "  Ziccoty, 
diccoty,  dock,  the  mouse  ran  up  the  clock,  the  clock 
struck  wan,  down  the  mouse  ran,  ziccoty,  diccoty,  dock." 
This  done  repeatedly  till  she  was  pleased,  she  gave  him 
his  new  lesson,  gravely  and  slowly,  timing  it  upon  her 
small  fingers  .  .  . 

He  pretended  to  great  difficulty,  and  she  rebuked  him 
with  most  comical  gravity,  treating  him  as  a  child.  He 
used  to  say  that  when  he  came  to  Alibi  Crackaby  he 
broke  down,  and  Pin-Pan,  Musky-Dan,  Tweedle-um 
Twoddle-um  made  him  roar  with  laughter.  He  said 
Musky-Dan  especially  was  beyond  endurance,  bringing 
up  an  Irishman  and  his  hat  fresh  from  the  Spice  Islands 
and  odoriferous  Ind ;  she  getting  quite  bitter  in  her  dis- 
pleasure at  his  ill  behaviour  and  stupidness. 

Then  he  would  read  ballads  to  her  in  his  own  glorious 
way,  the  two  getting  wild  with  excitement  over  Gil 
Morrice  or  the  Baron  of  Smailholm;  and  he  would 
take  her  on  his  knee,  and  make  her  repeat  Constance's 
speeches  in  King  John,  till  he  swayed  to  and  fro  sobbing 
'3 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

his  fill.      Fancy  the  gifted  little  creature,  like  one  pos- 
sessed, repeating  — 

"  For  I  am  sick,  and  capable  of  fears, 
Oppressed  with  wrong,  and  therefore  full  of  fears; 
A  widow,  husbandless,  subject  to  fears ; 
A  woman,  naturally  born  to  fears." 

"  If  thou  that  bidst  me  be  content,  wert  grim, 
Ugly  and  slanderous  to  thy  mother's  womb, 
Lame,  foolish,  crooked,  swart,  prodigious  — .  " 

Or,  drawing  herself  up  "to  the  height  of  her  great 
argument "  — 

"  I  will  instruct  my  sorrows  to  be  proud, 
For  grief  is  proud,  and  makes  his  owner  stout. 
Here  I  and  sorrow  sit." 

Scott  used  to  say  that  he  was  amazed  at  her  power 
over  him,  saying  to  Mrs.  Keith,  "  She's  the  most  extra- 
ordinary creature  I  ever  met  with,  and  her  repeating  of 
Shakespeare  overpowers  me  as  nothing  else  does."  .  .  . 

And  we  can  imagine  Scott,  when  holding  his  warm 
plump  little  playfellow  in  his  arms,  repeating  that  stately 
friend's  [Wordsworth's]  lines  :  — 

"  Loving  she  is,  and  tractable,  though  wild, 
And  Innocence  hath  privilege  in  her, 
To  dignify  arch  looks  and  laughing  eyes, 
And  feats  of  cunning;  and  the  pretty  round 
Of  trespasses,  affected  to  provoke 
Mock  chastisement  and  partnership  in  play. 
And  as  a  fagot  sparkles  on  the  hearth, 
Not  less  if  unattended  and  alone, 
Than  when  both  young  and  old  sit  gathered  round, 
And  take  delight  in  its  activity, 
Even  so  this  happy  creature  of  herself 
Is  all-sufficient ;  solitude  to  her 
Is  blithe  society;  she  fills  the  air 
With  gladness  and  involuntary  songs." 

14 


The  Buds 

But  we  will  let  her  disclose  herself.   .  .  . 

Here  are  bits  from  her  Diary  at  Braehead :  — "  The 
day  of  my  existence  here  has  been  delightful  and  en- 
chanting. On  Saturday  I  expected  no  less  than  three 
well  made  Bucks  the  names  of  whom  is  here  advertised. 
Mr.  Geo.  Crakey  (Craigie),  and  Wm.  Keith  and  Jn. 
Keith  —  the  first  is  the  funniest  of  every  one  of  them. 
Mr.  Crakey  and  I  walked  to  Crakyhall  (Craigiehall) 
hand  in  hand  in  Innocence  and  matitation  (meditation) 
sweet  thinking  on  the  kind  love  which  flows  in  our  tender 
hearted  mind  which  is  overflowing  with  majestic  pleasure 
no  one  was  ever  so  polite  to  me  in  the  hole  state  of  my 
existence.  Mr.  Craky  you  must  know  is  a  great  Buck 
and  pretty  good-looking. 

"  I  am  at  Ravelston  enjoying  nature's  fresh  air.  The 
birds  are  singing  sweetly  —  the  calf  doth  frisk  and  nature 
shows  her  glorious  face."  .  .  . 

"  Yesterday  I  behaved  extremely  ill  in  God's  most  holy 
church  for  I  would  never  attend  myself  nor  let  Isabella 
attend  which  was  a  great  crime  for  she  often  often  tells 
me  that  when  to  or  three  are  geathered  together  God  is  in 
the  midst  of  them,  and  it  was  the  very  same  Divil  that 
tempted  Job  that  tempted  me  I  am  sure ;  but  he  resisted 
Satan  though  he  had  boils  and  many  many  other  mis- 
fortunes which  I  have  escaped.  ...  I  am  now  going  to 
tell  you  the  horible  and  wretched  plaege  (plague)  that 
my  multiplication  gives  me  you  can't  conceive  it  the  most 
Devilish  thing  is  8  times  8  and  7  times  7  it  is  what  nature 
itself  cant  endure."  .  .  . 

"  My  religion  is  greatly  falling  off  because  I  dont  pray 
with  so  much  attention  when  I  am  saying  my  prayers^ 
and  my  charecter  is  lost  among  the  Braehead  people. 
I  hope  I  will  be  religious  again  —  but  as  for  regaining  my 
charecter  I  despare  for  it."  .  .  . 

15 


The  Ladies'  Pageant 

Poor  dear  little  sinner! — Here  comes  the  world  again: 
— "  In  my  travels  I  met  with  a  handsome  lad  named 
Charles  Balfour  Esq.,  and  from  him  I  got  ofers  of  marage 
—  offers  of  marage,  did  I  say?  Nay  plenty  heard  me." 
A  fine  scent  for  "  breach  of  promise!  "... 

The  Newgate  Calender  is  very  instructive"  (!)  "A 
sailor  called  here  to  say  farewell ;  it  must  be  dreadful  to 
leave  his  native  country  when  he  might  get  a  wife;  or 
perhaps  me,  for  I  love  him  very  much.  But  O  I  forgot, 
Isabella  forbid  me  to  speak  about  love." 

Dr.  John  Brown 


16 


II 

VIRGINAL 


FROM  you,  lanthe,  little  troubles  pass 
Like  little  ripples  down  a  sunny  river. 
Your  pleasures  spring  like  daisies  in  the  grass, 
Cut  down,  and  up  again  as  blithe  as  ever. 

W.  S.  Landor 


Lucy         *^x         -<^y          ^>         -^         ^Qy         "Qy         "^ 

A  INHERE  are  two  passages  of  that  poet  who  is  distin- 
J-  guished,  it  seems  to  me,  from  all  others  —  not  by 
power,  but  by  exquisite  r/^/ness  —  which  point  you  to 
the  source,  and  describe  to  you,  in  a  few  syllables,  the 
completion  of  womanly  beauty.  I  will  read  the  intro- 
ductory stanzas,  but  the  last  is  the  one  I  wish  you  specially 
to  notice :  — 

"  Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower, 
Then  Nature  said,  a  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown. 
This  child  I  to  myself  will  take ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 

A  lady  of  my  own. 
C  I? 


The   Ladies'   Pageant 

Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse ;  and  with  me 

The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 
In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle,  or  restrain. 

The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her,  for  her  the  willow  bend ; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm, 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

And  vital  feelings  of  delight 

Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, — 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell. 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give, 
While  she  and  I  together  live, 

Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

"  Vital  feelings  of  delight,"  observe.  There  are  deadly 
feelings  of  delight ;  but  the  natural  ones  are  vital,  neces- 
sary to  very  life. 

And  they  must  be  feelings  of  delight,  if  they  are  to  be 
vital.  Do  not  think  you  can  make  a  girl  lovely,  if  you  do 
not  make  her  happy.  There  is  not  one  restraint  you  put 
on  a  good  girl's  nature  —  there  is  not  one  check  you  give 
to  her  instincts  of  affection  or  of  effort  —  which  will  not 
be  indelibly  written  on  her  features,  with  a  hardness  which 
is  all  the  more  painful  because  it  takes  away  the  bright- 
ness from  the  eyes  of  innocence,  and  the  charm  from  the 
brow  of  virtue. 

This  for  the  means:  now  note  the  end.  Take  from 
the  same  poet,  in  two  lines,  a  perfect  description  of 
womanly  beauty  — 

"  A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet" 

18 


Virginal 

The  perfect  loveliness  of  a  woman's  countenance  can 
only  consist  in  that  majestic  peace,  which  is  founded  in 
the  memory  of  happy  and  useful  years,  —  full  of  sweet 
records ;  and  from  the  joining  of  this  with  that  yet  more 
majestic  childishness,  which  is  still  full  of  change  and 
promise  ;  —  opening  always  —  modest  at  once,  and  bright, 
with  hope  of  better  things  to  be  won,  and  to  be  bestowed. 
There  is  no  old  age  where  there  is  still  that  promise  —  it 
is  eternal  youth. 

John  Ruskin 

A  Phantom  of  Delight          ^y        <^         *^         <2y 

SHE  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight; 
A  lovely  Apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moments  ornament ; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  Twilight  fair ; 
Like  Twilight's  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  Dawn ; 
A  dancing  Shape,  an  Image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 
A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too ! 
Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 
And  steps  of  virgin  liberty ; 
A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 
A  Creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food  ; 
For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 
Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 
19 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 
A  Being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  Traveller  betwixt  life  and  death  ; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill, 
A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command  ; 
And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 

W,  Wordsworth 


The  Maiden  of  the  Lakes 


Marian 


SHE  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 
As  many  maidens  be  ; 
Her  loveliness  I  never  knew 

Until  she  smiled  on  me. 
O  then  I  saw  her  eye  was  bright, 
A  well  of  love,  a  spring  of  light. 

But  now  her  looks  are  coy  and  cold, 

To  mine  they  ne'er  reply, 
And  yet  I  cease  not  to  behold 

The  love-light  in  her  eye  : 
Her  very  frowns  are  fairer  far 
Than  smiles  of  other  maidens  are. 

Hartley  Coleridge 


SHE  can  be  as  wise  as  we, 
And  wiser  when  she  wishes  ; 
She  can  knit  with  cunning  wit, 
And  dress  the  homely  dishes. 


Virginal 

She  can  flourish  staff  or  pen, 
And  deal  a  wound  that  lingers  ; 
She  can  talk  the  talk  of  men, 
And  touch  with  thrilling  fingers. 

Match  her  ye  across  the  sea, 
Natures  fond  and  fiery ; 
Ye  who  zest  the  turtle's  nest 
With  the  eagle's  eyrie. 
Soft  and  loving  is  her  soul, 
Swift  and  lofty  soaring ; 
Mixing  with  its  dove-like  dole 
Passionate  adoring. 

Such  as  she  who'll  match  with  me? 
In  flying  or  pursuing, 
Subtle  wiles  are  in  her  smiles 
To  set  the  world  a-wooing. 
She  is  steadfast  as  a  star, 
And  yet  the  maddest  maiden  : 
She  can  wage  a  gallant  war, 
And  give  the  peace  of  Eden. 

George  Meredith 


Ill 

THE  POETS  AND  THE  IDEAL 

Her  faults  he  knew  not,  love  is  always  blind, 
But  every  charm  revolv'd  within  his  mind  : 
Her  tender  age,  her  form  divinely  fair, 
Her  easy  motion,  her  attractive  air, 
Her  sweet  behaviour,  her  enchanting  face, 
Her  moving  softness,  her  majestic  grace. 

A.  Pope  (after  Chaucer) 

Sweet  lips,  this  way ! 

Matthew  Arnold 

The  Lady  of  the  Sonnets       <^        *o        <^        •^ 

SHALL  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day? 
Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate  : 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 
And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date : 
Sometimes  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 
And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimm'd ; 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines, 
By  chance,  or  nature's  changing  course  untrimm'd  ; 
But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade, 
Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  ow'st, 
Nor  shall  death  brag  thou  wander'st  in  his  shade, 
When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  grow'st ; 

22 


The  Poets  and  the  Ideal 

So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  thee. 

W.  Shakespeare 


Ben's  Ideal 


STILL  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest, 
As  you  were  going  to  a  feast  ; 
Still  to  be  powder'd,  still  perfum'd  : 
Lady,  it  is  to  be  presum'd, 
Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found, 
All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face 

That  makes  simplicity  a  grace; 

Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free : 

Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me 

Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art : 

They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart. 

Ben  Jonson 


Castara 


LIKE  the  violet  which  alone 
Prospers  in  some  happy  shade, 
My  Castara  lives  unknown, 
To  no  looser  eye  betray'd, 
For  she's  to  her  self  untrue 
Who  delights  i'  th1  public  view. 
23 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

Such  is  her  beauty  as  no  arts 
Have  enrich'd  with  borrowed  grace ; 
Her  high  birth  no  pride  imparts, 
For  she  blushes  in  her  place. 
Folly  boasts  a  glorious  blood, 
She  is  noblest,  being  good. 

Cautious,  she  knew  never  yet 

What  a  wanton  courtship  meant ; 

Nor  speaks  loud  to  boast  her  wit, 

In  her  silence  eloquent : 

Of  her  self  survey  she  takes, 

But  'tween  men  no  difference  makes. 

She  obeys  with  speedy  will 

Her  grave  parents1  wise  commands  ; 

And  so  innocent  that  ill 

She  nor  acts  nor  understands. 

Women's  feet  run  still  astray, 

If  once  to  ill  they  know  the  way. 

She  sails  by  that  rock,  the  Court, 
Where  oft  honour  splits  her  mast : 
And  retir'dness  thinks  the  port, 
Where  her  fame  may  anchor  cast : 
Virtue  safely  cannot  sit 
Where  vice  is  enthron'd  for  wit. 

She  holds  that  day's  pleasure  best 
Where  sin  waits  not  on  delight ; 
Without  mast,  or  ball,  or  feast, 
Sweetly  spends  a  winter's  night : 
For  that  darkness  whence  is  thrust 
Prayer  and  sleep  oft  governs  lust. 
24 


The  Poets  and  the  Ideal 

She  her  throne  makes  reason  climb, 

While  wild  passions  captive  lie ; 

And  each  article  of  time, 

Her  pure  thoughts  to  Heaven  fly : 

All  her  vows  religious  be, 

And  her  love  she  vows  to  me. 

William  Habington 


Campion's  Lady 


AND  would  you  see  my  mistress1  face? 
It  is  a  flowery  garden  place, 
Where  knots  of  beauties  have  such  grace 
That  all  is  work  and  nowhere  space. 

It  is  a  sweet  delicious  morn, 
Where  day  is  breeding,  never  born  : 
It  is  a  meadow,  yet  unshorn, 
Which  thousand  flowers  do  adorn. 

It  is  the  heavens1  bright  reflex, 
Weak  eyes  to  dazzle  and  to  vex : 
It  is  th1  Idea  of  her  sex, 
Envy  of  whom  doth  worlds  perplex. 

It  is  a  face  of  Death  that  smiles, 
Pleasing,  though  it  kills  the  whiles  : 
Where  Death  and  Love  in  pretty  wiles 
Each  other  mutually  beguiles. 

It  is  fair  beauty's  freshest  youth, 

It  is  the  feigned  Elysiuirfs  truth  : 

The  spring,  that  winter'd  hearts  reneweth  ; 

And  this  is  that  my  soul  pursueth. 

Thomas  Campion 
25 


The   Ladies'   Pageant 


"  My  Dear  Mistress "      ^>       *cy       *o       ^>       <: 

MY  dear  mistress  has  a  heart 
Soft  as  those  kind  looks  she  gave  me ; 
When,  with  love's  resistless  art, 
And  her  eyes,  she  did  enslave  me ; 
But  her  constancy's  so  weak, 
She's  so  wild  and  apt  to  wander, 
That  my  jealous  heart  would  break 
Should  we  live  one  day  asunder. 

Melting  joys  about  her  move, 
Killing  pleasures,  wounding  blisses, 
She  can  dress  her  eyes  in  love, 
And  her  lips  can  arm  with  kisses ; 
Angels  listen  when  she  speaks, 
She's  my  delight,  all  mankind's  wonder, 
But  my  jealous  heart  would  break 
Should  we  live  one  day  asunder. 

Earl  of  Rochester 


Rosalyne 


LIKE  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere, 
Where  all  imperial  glory  shines, 
Of  selfsame  colour  is  her  hair, 
Whether  unfolded  or  in  twines  ; 

Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosalyne! 
Her  eyes  are  sapphires  set  in  snow, 
Refining  heaven  by  every  wink ; 
The  gods  do  fear  whenas  they  glow, 
And  I  do  tremble  when  I  think, 
Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine! 
26 


The  Poets  and  the  Ideal 

Her.  cheeks  are  like  the  blushing  cloud 

That  beautifies  Aurora's  face, 
Or  like  the  silver-crimson  shroud 

That  Phoebus'  smiling  looks  doth  grace : 

Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosalyne ! 
Her  lips  are  like  two  budded  roses, 

Whom  ranks  of  lilies  neighbour  nigh, 
Within  whose  bounds  she  balm  encloses 

Apt  to  entice  a  deity. 

Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine ! 


Her  neck  like  to  a  stately  tower, 

Where  Love  himself  imprisoned  lies 
To  watch  for  glances  every  hour, 

From  her  divine  and  sacred  eyes ; 

Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosalyne  ! 
Her  paps  are  centres  of  delight, 

Her  paps  are  orbs  of  heavenly  frame, 
Where  Nature  moulds  the  dew  of  light, 

To  feed  perfection  with  the  same. 
Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine! 


With  Orient  pearl,  with  ruby  red, 

With  marble  white,  with  sapphire  blue, 
Her  body  every  way  is  fed, 

Yet  soft  in  touch,  and  sweet  in  view ; 

Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosalyne! 
Nature  herself  her  shape  admires, 

The  gods  are  wounded  in  her  sight, 
And  Love  forsakes  his  heavenly  fires, 
And  at  her  eyes  his  brand  doth  light. 
Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine ! 
27 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 


Then  muse  not,  Nymphs,  though  I  bemoan 

The  absence  of  fair  Rosalyne ; 
Since  for  a  fair  there's  fairer  none, 

Nor  for  her  virtues  so  divine, 
Heigh  ho!  fair  Rosalyne: 

Heigh  ho!  my  heart,  would  God  that  she  were 
mine! 

Thomas  Lodge 


Samela 


LIKE  to  Diana  in  her  summer  weed, 
Girt  with  crimson  robe  of  brightest  dye, 

Goes  fair  Samela ; 

Whiter  than  be  the  flocks  that  straggling  feed, 
When  washed  by  Arethusa  Fount  they  lie, 

Is  fair  Samela ; 

As  fair  Aurora  in  her  morning  grey, 
Decked  with  the  ruddy  glister  of  her  love, 

Is  fair  Samela ; 

Like  lovely  Thetis  on  a  calmed  day, 
Whenas  her  brightness  Neptune's  fancy  move, 

Shines  fair  Samela ; 

Her  tresses  gold,  her  eyes  like  glassy  streams, 
Her  teeth  are  pearl,  the  breasts  are  ivory 

Of  fair  Samela ; 

Her  cheeks,  like  rose  and  lily,  yield  forth  gleams, 
Her  brow's  bright  arches  framed  of  ebony, 

Thus  fair  Samela. 

Passeth  fair  Venus  in  her  bravest  hue, 
And  Juno  in  the  show  of  majesty, 

For  she's  Samela. 
28 


The  Poets  and  the  Ideal 

Pallas  in  wit ;  all  three,  if  you  well  view, 
For  beauty,  wit,  and  matchless  dignity 
Yield  to  Samela. 

Robert  Greene 


My  Luve 


Julia 


OMY  Luve  is  like  a  red,  red  rose 
That's  newly  sprung  in  June  : 

0  my  Luve  is  like  the  melodie 
That's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  hive  am  I : 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry  : 

Till  a1  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun ; 

1  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

While  the  sands  o1  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  Luve! 

And  fare  thee  weel  awhile! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  Luve, 

Tho'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 

Robert  Burns 


YOU  are  a  tulip  seen  to-day, 
But,  dearest,  of  so  short  a  stay, 
That  where  you  grew  scarce  man  can  say. 
29 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

You  are  a  lovely  July  flower, 

Yet  one  rude  wind  or  ruffling  shower 

Will  force  you  hence,  and  in  an  hour. 

You  are  a  sparkling  rose  i'  th'  bud. 
Yet  lost  ere  that  chaste  flesh  and  blood 
Can  show  where  you  or  grew  or  stood. 

You  are  a  full-spread,  fair-set  vine, 
And  can  with  tendrils  love  entwine, 
Yet  dried  ere  you  distil  your  wine. 

You  are  like  balm  enclosed  well 
In  amber  or  some  crystal  shell, 
Yet  lost  ere  you  transfuse  your  smell. 

You  are  a  dainty  violet, 

Yet  withered  ere  you  can  be  set 

Within  the  virgin's  coronet. 

You  are  the  queen  all  flowers  among ; 
But  die  you  must,  fair  maid,  ere  long, 
As  he,  the  maker  of  this  song. 

Robert  Herrick 


The  Shepherd's  Nymph 


WHAT  shepherd  can  express 
The  favour  of  her  face, 
To  whom  in  this  distress 
I  do  appeal  for  grace  ? 

A  thousand  Cupids  fly 
About  her  gentle  eye. 
3° 


The  Poets  and  the  Ideal 

From  which  each  throws  a  dart 

That  kindleth  soft  sweet  fire 

Within  my  sighing  heart, 

Possessed  by  desire ; 

No  sweeter  life  I  try 
Than  in  her  love  to  die. 

The  lily  in  the  field, 

That  glories  in  his  white, 

For  pureness  now  must  yield, 

And  render  up  his  right. 

Heaven  pictured  in  her  face 
Doth  promise  joy  and  grace. 

Fair  Cynthia's  silver  light 
That  beats  on  running  streams, 
Compares  not  with  her  white, 
Whose  hairs  are  all  sunbeams. 

So  bright  my  nymph  doth  shine 

As  day  unto  my  eyne. 

With  this  there  is  a  red, 

Exceeds  the  damask-rose, 

Which  in  her  cheeks  is  spread 

Where  every  favour  grows  ; 
In  sky  there  is  no  star 
But  she  surmounts  it  far. 

When  Phrebus  from  the  bed 

Of  Thetis  doth  arise, 

The  morning  blushing  red, 

In  fair  carnation-wise. 

He  shows  in  my  nymph's  face, 
As  queen  of  every  grace. 
Jl 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 


This  pleasant  lily  white, 
This  taint  of  roseate  red, 
This  Cynthia's  silver  light, 
This  sweet  fair  Dea  spread, 

These  sunbeams  in  mine  eye, 

These  beauties  make  me  die. 

Earl  of  Oxenford 


Diaphenia 


DIAPHENIA,  like  the  daffadowndilly, 
White  as  the  sun,  fair  as  the  lily, 
Heigho,  how  I  do  love  thee! 
I  do  love  thee  as  my  lambs 
Are  beloved  of  their  dams  ; 
How  blest  were  I  if  thou  wouldst  prove  me  ! 

Diaphenia,  like  the  spreading  roses, 

That  in  thy  sweets  all  sweets  encloses, 
Fair  sweet,  how  I  do  love  thee  ! 

I  do  love  thee  as  each  flower 

Loves  the  sun's  life-giving  power ; 
For  dead,  thy  breath  to  life  might  move  me. 

Diaphenia,  like  to  all  things  blessed 

When  all  thy  praises  are  expressed, 
Dear  joy,  how  I  do  love  thee  ! 

As  the  birds  do  love  the  Spring, 

Or  the  bees  their  careful  king : 
Then  in  requite,  sweet  virgin,  love  me  ! 

H.  Constable 

32 


The  Poets  and  the  Ideal 

A  Lady  Sweet  and  Kind  -Qy       ^       ^>       x 

npHERE  is  a  Lady  sweet  and  kind, 
J-     Was  never  face  so  pleased  my  mind  ; 
I  did  but  see  her  passing  by, 
And  yet  I  love  her  till  I  die. 

Her  gesture,  motion,  and  her  smiles, 
Her  wit,  her  voice,  my  heart  beguiles, 
Beguiles  my  heart,  I  know  not  why, 
And  yet  I  love  her  till  I  die.  .  .  . 

Cupid  is  winged  and  doth  range 
Her  country  so,  my  love  doth  change : 
But  change  she  earth,  or  change  she  sky, 
Yet  will  I  love  her  till  I  die. 

Anonymous 


Cherry  Ripe 


nPHERE  is  a  garden  in  her  face 
J-     Where  roses  and  white  lilies  grow  ; 
A  heavenly  paradise  is  that  place 
Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  do  flow : 
There  cherries  grow  which  none  may  buy 
Till  "  Cherry  ripe  "  themselves  do  cry. 

Those  cherries  fairly  do  enclose 
Of  orient  pearl  a  double  row, 
Which  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows, 
They  look  like  rose-buds  fill'd  with  snow ; 
Yet  them  nor  peer  nor  prince  can  buy 
Till  "  Cherry  ripe  "  themselves  do  cry. 
D  33 


The   Ladies'   Pageant 

Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still, 
Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand, 
Threatening  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill 
All  that  attempt  with  eye  or  hand 
Those  sacred  cherries  to  come  nigh, 
Till  "  Cherry  ripe  "  themselves  do  cry. 

Thomas  Campion 

A  Description  of  a  Most  Noble  Lady      *c^  ^> 

Adviewed  by  John  Heywood,  presently ;  who  advertis- 
ing her  years,  as  face,  saith  of  her  thus,  in  much  eloquent 
phrase :  — 

GIVE  place,  ye  ladies !  all  begone ; 
Show  not  yourselves  at  all. 
For  why  ?  behold !  there  cometh  one 
Whose  face  yours  all  blank  shall. 

The  virtue  of  her  looks 

Excels  the  precious  stone  ; 
Ye  need  none  other  books 

To  read,  or  look  upon. 

In  each  of  her  two  eyes 

There  smiles  a  naked  boy ; 
It  would  you  all  suffice 

To  see  those  lamps  of  joy. 

If  all  the  world  were  sought  full  far, 

Who  could  find  such  a  wight? 
Her  beauty  twinkleth  like  a  star 

Within  the  frosty  night. 

Her  colour  comes  and  goes  — 

With  such  a  goodly  grace, 
More  ruddy  than  the  rose  — 

Within  her  lively  face. 
34 


The  Poets  and  the   Ideal 

Amongst  her  youthful  years 

She  triumphs  over  age  ; 
And  yet  she  still  appears 

Both  witty,  grave  and  sage. 
I  think  nature  hath  lost  her  mould 

Where  she  her  form  did  take  ; 
Or  else  I  doubt  that  nature  could 

So  fair  a  creature  make. 

She  may  be  well  compared 

Unto  the  phoenix  kind ; 
Whose  like  hath  not  been  heard 

That  any  now  can  find. 
In  life  a  Dian  chaste ; 

In  truth  Penelope ; 
In  word  and  deed  steadfast  — 

What  need  I  more  to  say  ? 
At  Bacchus'  feast  none  may  her  meet : 

Or  yet  at  any  wanton  play ; 
Nor  gazing  in  the  open  street, 

Or  wandering,  as  astray. 
The  mirth  that  she  doth  use 

Is  mixed  with  shamefastness  ; 
All  vices  she  eschews, 

And  hateth  idleness. 

It  is  a  world  to  see 

How  virtue  can  repair, 
And  deck  such  honesty 

In  her  that  is  so  fair. 
Great  suit  to  vice  may  some  allure 

That  thinks  to  make  no  fault ; 
We  see  a  fort  had  need  be  sure 

Which  many  doth  assault. 
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The  Ladies'   Pageant 

They  seek  an  endless  way 

That  think  to  win  her  love  ; 
As  well  they  may  assay 

The  stony  rock  to  move. 

For  she  is  none  of  those 

That  sets  store  by  evil  fame ; 
She  will  not  lightly  lose 

Her  truth  and  honest  name. 

How  might  we  do  to  have  a  graff 

Of  this  unspotted  tree  ? 
For  all  the  rest  they  are  but  chaff 

In  praise  of  her  to  be. 

She  doth  as  far  exceed 

These  women,  nowadays, 
As  doth  the  flower  the  weed  ; 

And  more,  a  thousand  ways. 

This  praise  I  shall  her  give 

When  Death  doth  what  he  can ; 

Her  honest  name  shall  live 
Within  the  mouth  of  man. 

This  worthy  lady  to  bewray  — 

A  king's  daughter  was  she  — 
Of  whom  John  Heywood  list  to  say, 

In  such  worthy  degree. 

And  Mary  was  her  name,  sweet  ye, 

With  these  graces  indued  ; 
At  eighteen  years  so  flourished  she : 
So  doth  his  mean  conclude. 

John  Heywood 
36 


The  Poets  and  the  Ideal 

Three  Roses   ^y        ^>        ^>        ^y        -o        ^; 

WHEN  the  buds  began  to  burst, 
Long  ago,  with  Rose  the  First 
I  was  walking :  joyous  then 
Far  above  all  other  men, 
Till  before  us  up  there  stood 
Britonfery's  oaken  wood, 
Whispering,  "  Happy  as  thou  art, 
Happiness  and  thou  must  part." 
Many  summers  have  gone  by 
Since  a  Second  Rose  and  I 
(Rose  from  that  same  stem)  have  told 
This  and  other  tales  of  old. 
She  upon  her  wedding-day 
Carried  home  my  tenderest  lay ; 
From  her  lap  I  now  have  heard 
Gleeful,  chirping,  Rose  the  Third. 
Not  for  her  this  hand  of  mine 
Rhyme  with  nuptial  wreath  shall  twine  ; 
Cold  and  torpid  it  must  lie, 
Mute  the  tongue,  and  closed  the  eye. 

W.  S.  Landor 

Marguerite      -Qy        ^y        -<^        <^y        -<^y        ^ 

LAUGH,  my  friends,  and  without  blame 
Lightly  quit  what  lightly  came ; 
Rich  to-morrow  as  to-day, 
Spend  as  madly  as  you  may ! 
I,  with  little  land  to  stir, 
Am  the  exacter  labourer. 
Ere  the  parting  hour  go  by, 
Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory! 
37 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

But  my  Youth  reminds  me  —  "  Thou 
Hast  liv'd  light  as  these  live  now : 
As  these  are,  thou  too  wert  such : 
Much  hast  had,  hast  squander"  d  much. 
Fortune's  now  less  frequent  heir, 
Ah!  I  husband  what's  grown  rare. 
Ere  the  parting  hour  go  by, 
Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory! 

Young  I  said  :  "  A  face  is  gone 

If  too  hotly  mused  upon  ; 

And  our  best  impressions  are 

Those  that  do  themselves  repair." 

Many  a  face  I  then  let  by, 

Ah!  is  faded  utterly. 

Ere  the  parting  hour  go  by, 
Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory! 

Marguerite  says  :  "  As  last  year  went, 
So  the  coming  year'll  be  spent ; 
Some  day  next  year,  I  shall  be, 
Entering  heedless,  kiss'd  by  thee." 
Ah,  I  hope !  —  yet,  once  away. 
What  may  chain  us,  who  can  say? 
Ere  the  parting  hour  go  by, 
Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory  ! 

Paint  that  lilac  kerchief,  bound 
Her  soft  face,  her  hair  around ; 
Tied  under  the  archest  chin 
Mockery  ever  ambush'd  in. 
Let  the  fluttering  fringes  streak 
All  her  pale,  sweet-rounded  cheek. 
Ere  the  parting  hour  go  by, 
Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory! 
38 


The  Poets  and  the  Ideal 

Paint  that  figure's  pliant  grace 
As  she  towards  me  lean'd  her  face, 
Half  refused  and  half  resigned, 
Murmuring:  "  Art  thou  still  unkind?  " 
Many  a  broken  promise  then 
Was  new  made —  to  break  again. 

Ere  the  parting  hour  go  by, 

Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory ! 
Paint  those  eyes,  so  blue,  so  kind, 
Eager  tell-tales  of  her  mind ; 
Paint,  with  their  impetuous  stress 
Of  enquiring  tenderness, 
Those  frank  eyes,  where  deep  doth  lie 
An  angelic  gravity. 

Ere  the  parting  hour  go  by, 

Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory! 

What,  my  Friends,  these  feeble  lines 
Show,  you  say,  my  love  declines? 
To  paint  ill  as  I  have  done, 
Proves  forgetfulness  begun? 
Time's  gay  minions,  pleas'd  you  see, 
Time,  your  master,  governs  me ; 

Pleas'd,  you  mock  the  fruitless  cry; 

"Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory!" 

Ah,  too  true  !  Time's  current  strong 
Leaves  us  true  to  nothing  long. 
Yet,  if  little  stays  with  man, 
Ah,  retain  we  all  we  can  ! 
If  the  clear  impression  dies, 
Ah,  the  dim  remembrance  prize ! 

Ere  the  parting  hour  go  by, 

Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory ! 

Matthew  Arnold 
39 


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My  Love  -^y       <^        *o        ^       ^> 

TV  TOT  as  all  other  women  are 
i^l     Is  she  that  to  my  soul  is  dear ; 
Her  glorious  fancies  come  from  far, 
Beneath  the  silver  evening-star, 
And  yet  her  heart  is  ever  near. 

Great  feelings  hath  she  of  her  own. 
Which  lesser  souls  may  never  know ; 
God  giveth  them  to  her  alone, 
And  sweet  they  are  as  any  tone 
Wherewith  the  wind  may  choose  to  blow. 

Yet  in  herself  she  dwelleth  not, 
Although  no  home  were  half  so  fair ; 
No  simplest  duty  is  forgot ; 
Life  hath  no  dim  and  lowly  spot 
That  doth  not  in  her  sunshine  share. 

She  doeth  little  kindnesses. 

Which  most  leave  undone,  or  despise  ; 

For  naught  that  sets  one  heart  at  ease, 

And  giveth  happiness  or  peace, 

Is  low-esteeme'd  in  her  eyes. 

She  hath  no  scorn  of  common  things, 
And,  though  she  seem  of  other  birth, 
Round  us  her  heart  intwines  and  clings, 
And  patiently  she  folds  her  wings, 
To  tread  the  humble  paths  of  earth. 

Blessing  she  is  ;  God  made  her  so, 
And  deeds  of  week-day  holiness 
Fall  from  her  noiseless  as  the  snow, 
Nor  hath  she  ever  chanced  to  know 
That  aught  were  easier  than  to  bless. 
40 


The  Poets  and  the  Ideal 

She  is  most  fair,  and  thereunto 
Her  life  doth  rightly  harmonise ; 
Feeling  or  thought  that  was  not  true 
Ne'er  made  less  beautiful  the  blue 
Unclouded  heaven  of  her  eyes. 

She  is  a  woman ;  one  in  whom 
The  spring-time  of  her  childish  years 
Hath  never  lost  its  fresh  perfume, 
Though  knowing  well  that  life  hath  room 
For  many  blights  and  many  tears. 

I  love  her  with  a  love  as  still 
As  a  broad  river's  peaceful  night, 
Which,  by  high  tower  and  lowly  mill, 
Seems  following  its  own  wayward  will, 
And  yet  doth  ever  flow  aright. 

And,  on  its  full,  deep  breast  serene, 

Like  quiet  isles  my  duties  lie  ; 

It  flows  around  them  and  between, 

And  makes  them  fresh,  and  fair,  and  green, 

Sweet  homes  wherein  to  live  and  die. 

/.  R.  Lowell 


Amaturus 


OOMEWHERE  beneath  the  sun, 

^     These  quivering  heart-strings  prove  it, 

Somewhere  there  must  be  one 

Made  for  this  soul,  to  move  it ; 
Some  one  that  hides  her  sweetness 

From  neighbours  whom  she  slights, 
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The   Ladies'   Pageant 

Nor  can  attain  completeness, 

Nor  give  her  heart  its  rights ; 
Some  one  whom  I  could  court, 

With  no  great  change  of  manner, 
Still  holding  reason's  fort, 

Though  waving  fancy's  banner ; 
A  lady,  not  so  queenly 

As  to  disdain  my  hand, 
Yet  born  to  smile  serenely 

Like  those  that  rule  the  land ; 
Noble,  but  not  too  proud ; 

With  soft  hair  simply  folded, 
And  bright  face  crescent-browed, 

And  throat  by  Muses  moulded ; 
And  eyelids  lightly  falling 

On  little  glistening  seas, 
Deep-calm,  when  gales  are  brawling, 

Though  stirred  by  every  breeze : 
Swift  voice,  like  flight  of  dove 

Through  minster  arches  floating, 
With  sudden  turns,  when  love 

Gets  overnear  to  doting ; 
Keen  lips,  that  shape  soft  sayings 

Like  crystals  of  the  snow, 
With  pretty  half-betrayings 

Of  things  one  may  not  know ; 
Fair  hair,  whose  touches  thrill, 

Like  golden  rod  of  wonder, 
Which  Hermes  wields  at  will 

Spirit  and  flesh  to  sunder ; 
Light  foot,  to  press  the  stirrup 

In  fearlessness  and  glee, 
Or  dance,  till  finches  chirrup, 

And  stars  sink  to  the  sea. 


Maud 


The  Poets  and  the  Ideal 

Forth,  Love,  and  find  this  maid, 

Wherever  she  be  hidden ; 
Speak,  Love,  be  not  afraid, 

But  plead  as  thou  art  bidden ; 
And  say,  that  he  who  taught  thee 

His  yearning  want  and  pain, 
Too  dearly,  dearly  bought  thee 

To  part  with  thee  in  vain. 

William  Cory 


GO  not,  happy  day, 
From  the  shining  fields, 
Go  not,  happy  day, 

Till  the  maiden  yields. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 
When  the  happy  Yes 

Falters  from  her  lips, 
Pass  and  blush  the  news 

O'er  the  blowing  ships. 
Over  blowing  seas, 

Over  seas  at  rest, 
Pass  the  happy  news, 

Blush  it  thro1  the  West ; 
Till  the  red  man  dance 

By  his  red  cedar-tree, 
And  the  red  man's  babe 

Leap,  beyond  the  sea. 
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Blush  from  West  to  East, 

Blush  from  East  to  West, 
Till  the  West  is  East, 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 

Lord  Tennyson 


IV 
A   STATESMAN'S    IDEAL 


The  Character  of "^>       "O       -^       ^y       <^y 

I  INTEND  to  give  my  idea  of  a  woman ;  if  it  at  all 
answers  any  original,  I  shall  be  pleased ;  for  if  such 
a  person  as  I  would  describe  really  exists,  she  must  be 
far  superior  to  my  description  :  and  such  as  I  must  love 
too  well  to  be  able  to  paint  as  I  ought. 

She  is  handsome,  but  it  is  a  beauty  not  arising  from 
features,  from  complexion,  or  from  shape ;  she  has  all 
three  in  a  high  degree,  but  it  is  not  by  these  she  touches 
an  heart ;  it  is  all  that  sweetness  of  temper,  benevolence, 
innocence,  and  sensibility,  which  a  face  can  express  that 
forms  her  beauty. 

She  has  a  face  that  just  raises  your  attention  at  first 
sight,  it  grows  on  you  every  moment,  and  you  wonder 
it  did  no  more  than  raise  your  attention  at  first. 

Her  eyes  have  a  mild  light,  but  they  awe  you  when 
she  pleases ;  they  command  like  a  good  man  out  of 
office,  not  by  authority  but  by  virtue. 

Her  features  are  not  perfectly  regular;  that  sort  of 
exactness  is  more  to  be  praised  than  to  be  loved ;  for 
it  is  never  animated. 

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The  Ladies'   Pageant 


Her  stature  is  not  tall ;  she  is  not  made  to  be  the 
admiration  of  everybody,  but  the  happiness  of  one. 

She  has  all  the  firmness  that  does  not  exclude  delicacy : 
she  has  all  the  softness  that  does  not  imply  weakness.  .  .  . 

There  is  often  more  of  the  coquette  shown  in  an 
affected  plainness  than  in  a  tawdry  finery :  she  is  always 
clean  without  preciseness  or  affectation. 

Her  gravity  is  a  gentle  thoughtfulness,  that  softens  the 
features  without  discomposing  them  ;  she  is  usually  grave. 

Her  smiles  are  inexpressible. 

Her  voice  is  a  low,  soft  music,  not  formed  to  rule  in 
public  assemblies,  but  to  charm  those  who  can  distinguish 
a  company  from  a  crowd ;  it  has  this  advantage,  you  must 
come  close  to  her  to  hear  it. 

To  describe  her  body  describes  her  mind;  one  is  the 
transcript  of  the  other.  Her  understanding  is  not  shown 
in  the  variety  of  matters  it  exerts  itself  on,  but  in  the  good- 
ness of  the  choice  she  makes. 

She  does  not  display  it  so  much  in  saying  or  doing 
striking  things,  as  in  avoiding  such  as  she  ought  not  to 
say  or  do. 

She  discovers  the  right  and  wrong  of  things  not  by 
reasoning  but  sagacity :  most  women,  and  many  good 
ones,  have  a  closeness  and  something  selfish,  in  their 
dispositions ;  she  has  a  true  generosity  of  temper ;  the 
most  extravagant  cannot  be  more  unbounded  in  their 
liberality,  the  most  covetous  not  more  cautious  in  the 
distribution. 

No  person  of  so  few  years  can  know  the  world  better ; 
no  person  was  ever  less  corrupted  by  that  knowledge. 

Her  politeness  seems  to  flow  rather  from  a  natural  dis- 
position to  oblige,  than  from  any  rules  on  that  subject ; 
and  therefore  never  fails  to  strike  those  who  understand 
good  breeding  and  those  who  do  not. 
46 


A  Statesman's  Ideal 

She  does  not  run  with  a  girlish  eagerness  into  new 
friendships,  which,  as  they  have  no  foundation  in  reason, 
serve  only  to  multiply  and  embitter  disputes;  it  is  long 
before  she  chooses,  but  then  it  is  fixed  for  ever ;  and  the 
first  hours  of  romantic  friendships  are  not  warmer  than 
hers  after  the  lapse  of  years.  As  she  never  disgraces 
her  good  nature  by  severe  reflections  on  any  body,  so  she 
never  degrades  her  judgment  by  immoderate  or  ill-placed 
praises ;  for  every  thing  violent  is  contrary  to  her  gentle- 
ness of  disposition  and  the  evenness  of  her  virtue;  she 
has  a  steady  and  firm  mind,  which  takes  no  more  from 
the  female  character  than  the  solidity  of  marble  does 
from  its  polish  and  lustre.  She  has  such  virtues  as  make 
us  value  the  truly  great  of  our  own  sex ;  she  has  all  the 
winning  graces,  that  make  us  love  even  the  faults  we 
see  in  the  weak  and  beautiful  of  hers. 

Edmund  Burke. 


Mrs.  Burke        ^       ^>       *2y       <^        ^>-        <^ 

BUT  whatever  obscurity  there  may  be  hanging  over 
this  and  other  questions  relating  to  Burke's  early 
history,  all  letters  and  all  anecdotes,  all  conjectures  and 
all  facts,  agree  in  showing  that  the  young  lady,  who  in 
the  twenty-third  year  of  her  age  exchanged  the  name 
of  Miss  Nugent  for  that  of  Mrs.  Edmund  Burke,  made 
one  of  the  best  of  wives  with  which  a  man  of  genius  was 
ever  blessed. 

She  was  not  indeed  what  is  called  a  regular,  beauty. 
But  she  was  ever  sweet  and  gentle  in  her  disposition, 
and  inexpressibly  winning  and  graceful  in  her  manners. 
Quiet,  thoughtful,  retiring,  firm  and  decided  in  her 
principles,  calm  and  considerate  in  all  her  actions,  she 
47 


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knew  the  world,  yet  was  not  corrupted  by  it ;  and  though 
good-natured  to  everybody,  her  happiness  was  centred 
in  her  husband.  The  beautiful  character  which  Burke 
drew  of  her  on  the  thirteenth  anniversary  of  their 
marriage  reads  like  that  of  an  ideal;  but  stern  men 
of  the  world,  like  Mr.  Hardy  and  Sir  Philip  Francis, 
spoke  of  her  as  all  that  was  beautiful  and  amiable 
among  women ;  and  so  shrewd  a  critic  of  her  own  sex 
as  Miss  Burney,  and  so  good  and  severe  a  woman  as 
Hannah  More,  have  cordially  given  a  similar  testimony. 
A  wife  who  could  make  such  men  and  such  women 
enthusiastically  praise  her  virtue  and  her  amiableness 
must  have  been  virtuous  and  amiable  indeed.  She 
glides  with  Quaker  calmness,  and  an  almost  saint-like 
beauty,  through  the  agitating  scenes  of  Burke's  daily 
life,  ever  soothing  his  natural  irritability  by  her  natural 
gentleness,  standing  by  his  side  in  moments  of  de- 
spondency, cheering  him  in  poverty,  nursing  him  in 
sickness,  consoling  him  in  sorrow.  Proud  to  live  in 
the  shadow  of  him  whom  she  so  devotedly  loved,  she 
confined  herself  almost  exclusively  to  the  home  which 
for  him  she  was  so  anxious  to  make  happy ;  and  so  un- 
pretending indeed  was  she,  that  few  of  Burke's  friends, 
except  those  who  habitually  visited  at  his  house,  had 
the  slightest  acquaintance  with  his  wife,  or  even  seemed 
to  be  aware  of  her  existence.  In  that  great  lottery  where 
domestic  happiness  is  staked,  Burke  was  thoroughly 
successful.  Whatever  may  be  his  future  troubles,  it 
is  much  to  remember  that  at  his  fireside  there  is  and 
will  be  peace. 

T.  Macknight 


A   WEST-COUNTRY    BEVY 

The  Milk-Maid  o'  the  Farm   ^       ^>        ^> 

O  POLL'S  the  milk-maid  o'  the  farm! 
An'  Poll's  so  happy  out  in  groun' 
Wi'  her  white  pa'il  below  her  ea'rm 
As  if  she  wore  a  goolden  crown. 

An1  Poll  don't  zit  up  half  the  night, 
Nor  lie  vor  half  the  day  a-bed ; 
An1  zoo  her  eyes  be  sparklen  bright 
An'  zoo  her  cheaks  be  bloomen  red. 

In  Zummer  mornens,  when  the  lark 
Do  rouse  the  litty  lad  an'  lass 
To  work,  then  she's  the  vu'st  to  mark 
Her  steps  along  the  dewy  grass. 

An'  in  the  evenen,  when  the  zun 
Do  sheen  agean  the  western  brows 
O'  hills,  where  bubblen  brooks  do  run, 
There  she  do  zing  bezide  her  cows. 
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The  Ladies'  Pageant 

An1  ev'ry  cow  of  hers  do  stand, 
An1  never  overzet  her  pail, 
Nor  try  to  kick  her  nimble  hand, 
Nor  switch  her  wi'  her  heavy  tail. 

Noo  leady,  wi'  her  muff  an'  vai'l, 
Do  walk  wi'  sich  a  steately  tread 
As  she  do,  wi'  her  milken  pail 
A-balanced  on  her  comely  head. 

An'  she,  at  mornen  an'  at  night, 
Do  skim  the  yollow  cream,  an'  mwold 
An'  wring  her  cheeses  red  and  white, 
An'  zee  the  butter  vetch'd  an'  roll'd. 

An'  in  the  barken  or  the  ground, 
The  chaps  do  always  do  their  best 
To  milk  the  vu'st  their  own  cows  round, 
An'  then  help  her  to  milk  the  rest. 

Zoo  Poll's  the  milk-maid  o'  the  farm! 
An'  Poll's  so  happy  out  in  groun' 
Wi'  her  white  pail  below  her  earm 
As  if  she  wore  a  goolden  crown. 

William  Barnes 


The  Maid  vor  my  Bride       ^v        -^y        "O 

AH !  don't  tell  o'  maidens  !  the  woone  vor  my  bride 
Is  little  lik'  too  many  maidens  bezide,  — 
Not  branten,  nor  spitevul,  nor  wild ;  she've  a  mind 
To  think  o'  what's  right,  an'  a  heart  to  be  kind. 
5° 


A  West-Country   Bevy 

She's  straight  an1  she's  slender,  but  not  over  tall, 
Wi'  lim's  that  be  litsome,  but  not  over  small ; 
There's  love-winnen  goodness  a-shown  in  her  feace, 
An'  queen,  to  be  steately,  must  walk  wi'  her  peace. 

Her  frocks  be  a-meade  all  becomen  an'  plain, 
An1  clean  as  a  blossom  undimm'd  by  a  stai'n ; 
Her  bonnet  ha'  got  but  two  ribbons,  a-tied 
Up  under  her  chin,  or  let  down  at  her  zide. 

When  she  do  speak  to  woone,  she  don't  stea're  an'  grin, 
There's  sense  in  her  looks,  vrom  her  eyes  to  her  chin, 
An'  her  words  be  so  kind,  an'  her  speech  is  so  meek, 
As  her  eyes  do  look  down  a-beginnen  to  speak. 

Her  skin  is  so  white  as  a  lily,  an'  each 

Ov  her  chea'ks  is  so  downy  an'  red  as  a  peach ; 

She's  pretty  a-zitten ;  but  oh !  how  my  love 

Do  watch  her  to  madness  when  woonce  she  do  move. 

An'  when  she  do  walk  hwome  vrom  church  drough  the 

groun', 

Wi'  woone  ea'rm  in  mine,  an'  wi'  woone  a-hung  down, 
I  do  think,  an'  do  veel  mwore  o'  shea'me  than  o'  pride, 
Do  meake  me  look  ugly  to  walk  by  her  zide. 

Zoo  don't  talk  o'  maidens!  the  woone  vor  my  bride 
Is  but  little  lik'  too  many  maidens  bezide,  — 
Not  branten,  nor  spitevul,  nor  wild  ;  she've  a  mind 
To  think  o'  what's  right,  an'  a  heart  to  be  kind. 

William  Barnes 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 


Blackmwore  Maidens 


'"T'HE  primnvose  in  the  sheade  do  blow, 
•*-     The  cowslip  in  the  zun, 
The  thyme  upon  the  down  do  grow, 

The  dote  where  streams  do  run  ; 
An1  where  do  pretty  maidens  grow 

An'  blow,  but  where  the  tow'r 
Do  rise  among  the  bricken  tuns, 

In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour. 

If  you  could  zee  their  comely  gait, 

An'  pretty  feaces'  smiles, 
A-trippen  on  so  light  o'  waight, 

An'  steppen  off  the  stiles  ; 
A-gwam  to  church,  as  bells  do  swing 

An'  ring  within  the  tow'r, 
You'd  own  the  pretty  maidens'  plea'ce 

Is  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour. 

If  you  vrom  Wimborne  took  your  road, 

To  Stower  or  Paladore, 
An'  all  the  farmers'  housen  show'd 

Their  dacters  at  the  door  ; 
You'd  cry  to  bachelors  at  hwome  — 

"  Here,  come  :  'ithin  an  hour 
You'll  vind  ten  maidens  to  your  mind, 

In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour." 

An'  if  you  look'd  'ithin  their  door, 

To  zee  'em  in  their  plea'ce, 
A-doen  housework  up  avore 

Their  smilen  mothers'  feace, 
52 


A  West-Country   Bevy 

You'd  cry  —  "  Why,  if  a  man  would  wive 

An'  thrive,  'ithout  a  dow'r, 
Then  let  en  look  en  out  a  wife 

In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour." 

As  I  upon  my  road  did  pass 

A  school-house  back  in  May, 
There  out  upon  the  beaten  grass 

Wer  maidens  at  their  play ; 
An'  as  the  pretty  souls  did  twile 

An'  smile,  I  cried,  "  The  flow'r 
O  beauty,  then,  is  still  in  bud 

In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour." 

William  Barnes 


My  Love  is  Good 


MY  love  is  good,  my  love  is  feair, 
She's  comely  to  behold,  O, 
In  ev'ry  thing  that  she  do  wear, 
Altho'  'tis  new  or  wold,  O. 
My  heart  do  leap  to  see  her  walk, 
So  straight  do  step  her  veet,  O, 
My  tongue  is  dum'  to  hear  her  talk, 
Her  vaice  do  sound  so  sweet.  O. 
The  flow'ry  groun'  wi'  floor  o1  green 
Do  bear  but  vew  so  good  an'  true. 

When  she  do  zit,  then  she  do  seem 
The  feairest  to  my  zight,  O, 
Till  she  do  stan'  an'  I  do  deem, 
She's  feairest  at  her  height,  O. 
An'  she  do  seem  Mthin  a  room 
The  feairest  on  a  floor,  O, 
53 


The   Ladies'    Pageant 

Till  I  agean  do  zee  her  bloom 

Still  feairer  out  o'  door,  O, 

Where  flow'ry  groun'  wi'  floor  o1  green 

Do  bear  but  vew  so  good  an'  true. 

An1  when  the  deaisies  be  a-press'd 
Below  her  vootsteps  wa'ight,  O, 
Do  seem  as  if  she  look'd  the  best 
Ov  all  in  walken  gait,  O. 
Till  I  do  zee  her  zit  upright 
Behind  the  ho'se's  neck,  O, 
A-holden  wi'  the  rain  so  tight 
His  tossen  head  in  check,  O. 
Where  flow'ry  groun'  wi'  floor  o'  green 
Do  bear  but  vew  so  good  an'  true. 

I  wish  I  had  my  own  free  land 
To  keep  a  ho'se  to  ride,  O, 
I  wish  I  had  a  ho'se  in  hand 
To  ride  en  at  her  zide,  O. 
Vor  if  I  wer  as  high  in  rank 
As  any  duke  or  lord,  O, 
Or  had  the  goold  the  richest  bank 
Can  shovel  vrom  his  horde,  O, 
I'd  love  her  still,  if  even  then 
She  wer  a  leaser  in  a  glen. 

William  Barnes 


Ruth  a-riden 


OV  all  the  roads  that  ever  bridge 
Did  bear  athirt  a  river's  feace, 
Or  ho'ses  up  an'  down  the  ridge 
Did  wear  to  doust  at  ev'ry  peace, 
54 


A  West-Country  Bevy 

I'll  teake  the  Sta'bridge  lea'ne,  to  tread, 
By  banks  wi'  primrwose-beds  bespread, 
An'  steately.elems  over  head, 
Where  Ruth  do  come  a-riden. 

An'  I  would  rise,  when  yields  be  grey 
Wi'  mornen  dew,  avore  'tis  dry, 
An'  beat  the  doust  droughout  the  day 
To  bluest  hills  ov  all  the  sky ; 
If  there  avore  the  dusk  o'  night, 
The  evenen  zun,  a-sheenen  bright, 
Would  pay  my  leabours  wi'  the  zight 
O'  Ruth— O'  Ruth  a-riden. 

Her  healthy  fea'ce  is  rwosy  feair, 
She's  comely  in  her  gait  an'  lim', 
An'  sweet's  the  smile  her  fea'ce  do  wear, 
Below  her  cap's  well-rounded  brim ; 
An'  while  her  skirt's  a-spreaden  wide, 
In  vwolds  upon  the  ho'se's  zide, 
He'll  toss  his  head  an'  snort  wi'  pride, 
To  trot  wi'  Ruth  a-riden. 

An'  as  her  ho'se's  rottlen  peace 
Do  slacken  till  his  veet  do  beat 
A  slower  trot,  an'  till  her  fea'ce 
Do  bloom  avore  the  tollman's  gea'te ; 
Oh!  he'd  be  glad  to  open  wide 
His  high-back'd  gea'te,  an'  stand  azide, 
A-given  up  his  toll  wi'  pride, 
Vor  zight  o'  Ruth  a-riden. 

An'  oh!  that  Ruth  could  be  my  bride, 
An'  I  had  ho'ses  at  my  will, 
That  I  mid  teake  her  by  my  zide, 
A-riden  over  dell  an'  hill ; 

55 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

I'd'zet  wi'  pride  her  litty  tooe 

'Ithin  a  stirrup  sheenen  new, 

An1  leave  all  other  jays  to  goo 

Along  wi'  Ruth  a-riden. 

If  maidens  that  be  weak  an'  pea'le 
A-mwopen  in  the  house's  shea'de, 
Would  wish  to  be  so  blithe  an'  hea'le 
As  you  did  zee  young  Ruth  a-meade ; 
Then,  though  the  zummer  zun  mid  glow, 
Or  though  the  winter  win'  mid  blow, 
They'd  leap  upon  the  saddle's  bow, 
An'  goo,  lik'  Ruth,  a-riden. 

While  evenen  light  do  sof'ly  gild 
The  moss  upon  the  elem's  bark, 
Avore  the  zingen  bird's  a-still'd, 
Or  woods  be  dim,  or  day  is  dark, 
Wi'  quiv'ren  grass  avore  his  breast, 
In  cowslip  beds,  do  lie  at  rest, 
The  ho'se  that  now  do  goo  the  best 
Wi'  rwosy  Ruth  a-riden. 

William  Barnes 


The  Devon  Maid 


WHERE  be  ye  going,  you  Devon  maid? 
And  what  have  ye  there  in  the  Basket? 
Ye  tight  little  fairy  just  fresh  from  the  dairy, 
Will  ye  give  me  some  cream  if  I  ask  it? 

I  love  your  meads,  and  I  love  your  flowers, 

And  I  love  your  junkets  mainly, 
But  'hind  the  door  I  love  kissing  more, 

O  look  not  so  disdainly. 
56 


A  West-Country   Bevy 

I  love  your  hills,  and  I  love  your  dales, 

And  I  love  your  flocks  a-bleating, 
But  O,  on  the  heather  to  lie  together, 

With  both  our  hearts  a-beating! 

I'll  put  your  Basket  all  safe  in  a  nook, 
Your  shawl  I  hang  up  on  the  willow, 

And  we  will  sigh  in  the  daisy's  eye 
And  kiss  on  a  grass  green  pillow. 

John  Keats 


57 


VI 
DAUGHTERS   OF  ERIN 

Mj  Irish  wife  has  dear  bine  ejes, 
My  hemn  by  day.  my  stars  bj  nigfat- 

ifie 


Iff  Irish  wife  has  golden  bur— 
Apollo's  harp  had  once  such  strings  — 

Apollo's  self  might  pause  to  bear 
Her  bird-tike  carol  when  she  sings. 

I  would  not  gheiny  Irish  wife 

For  aB  the  dames  of  the  Saxon  land; 
I  would  not  ghre  my  Irish  wife 

Forme  Qoeen  of  France's  band; 
For  she  to  me  is  dearer 

Than  casties  strong,  or  lands,  or  fife— 
In  death  I  would  be  near  her. 

And  rise  beside  my  Irish  wife. 

Tkowuud-ArcjM'G* 


An  Irish  Girl 


"V TOT  she  alone  is  fair  to  view 

1^1  Whose  classic  beauty  has  no  mar; 

Uhnnined  plainness  sways  us  too, 

The  glorified  irregular! 
More  comely  eTen  than  symmetry 
The  lack  of  it  may  sometimes  be. 


Daughters  of  Erin 

There  was  an  Irish  girl  I  knew  — 

I  would  not  have  one  freckle  changed, 

I  would  not  have  her  grey  eyes  blue, 
Her  lawless  sunny  hair  arranged, 

I  would  not  give  her  rustic  mien 

For  the  distinction  of  a  queen. 

Less  of  St.  James  than  of  St.  Giles 
There  was  about  her  witchery : 

I  think  that  she  imprisoned  smiles 
And  every  moment  one  leapt  free ; 

And  yet  her  forehead  could  express 

A  truly  awful  seriousness! 

Old  Ireland's  wrongs  she  throbbed  to  tell, 
This  wee,  Home-ruling,  patriot  rogue, 

Whilst  like  a  benediction  fell 
The  restful  music  of  her  brogue ; 

For  from  her  fierce  antipathy 

To  Saxons,  she  excepted  me. 

V.  V.  V. 

Peg  of  Limavaddy         ^>       *o     *o       <^y       *^ 

RIDING  from  Coleraine 
(Famed  for  lovely  Kitty) 
Came  a  Cockney  bound 

Unto  Deny  city ; 
Wear)'  was  his  soul, 

Shivering  and  sad,  he 

Bumped  along  the  road 

Leads  to  Limavaddy. 

Mountains  stretch'd  around, 
Gloomy  was  their  tinting, 

And  the  horse's  hoofs 
Made  a  dismal  dinting ; 
59 


The  Ladies'  Pageant 

Wind  upon  the  heath 
Howling  was  and  piping, 

On  the  heath  and  bog, 
Black  with  many  a  snipe  in. 

'Mid  the  bogs  of  black 

Silver  pools  were  flashing, 
Crows  upon  their  sides 

Picking  were  and  splashing. 
Cockney  on  the  car 

Closer  folds  his  plaidy, 
Grumbling  at  the  road 

Leads  to  Limavaddy. 

Through  the  crashing  woods 

Autumn  brawl'd  and  bluster'd, 
Tossing  round  about 

Leaves  the  hue  of  mustard; 
Yonder  lay  Lough  Foyle, 

Which  a  storm  was  whipping, 
Covering  with  mist 

Lake,  and  shores,  and  shipping. 
Up  and  down  the  hill 

(Nothing  could  be  bolder) 
Horse  went  with  a  raw 

Bleeding  on  his  shoulder. 
"Where  are  horses  changed?" 

Said  I  to  the  laddy 
Driving  on  the  box  : 

"  Sir,  at  Limavaddy." 

Limavaddy  inn's 

But  a  humble  bait-house, 
Where  you  may  procure 

Whiskey  and  potatoes ; 
60 


Daughters  of  Erin 

Landlord  at  the  door 

Gives  a  smiling  welcome 
To  the  shivering  wights 

Who  to  his  hotel  come. 
Landlady  within 

Sits  and  knits  a  stocking, 
With  a  wary  foot 

Baby's  cradle  rocking. 

To  the  chimney  nook 

Having  found  admittance, 
There  I  watch  a  pup 

Playing  with  two  kittens  ; 
(Playing  round  the  fire, 

Which  of  blazing  turf  is, 
Roaring  to  the  pot 

Which  bubbles  with  the  murphies)  ; 
And  the  cradle  babe 

Fond  the  mother  nursed  it, 
Singing  it  a  song, 

As  she  twists  the  worsted  ! 

Up  and  down  the  stair 

Two  more  young  ones  patter 
(Twins  were  never  seen 

Dirtier  or  fatter)  ; 
Both  have  mottled  legs, 

Both  have  snubby  noses, 
Both  have  —  Here  the  host 

Kindly  interposes : 
"  Sure  you  must  be  froze 

With  the  sleet  and  hail,  sir, 
So  will  you  have  some  punch, 

Or  will  you  have  some  ale,  sir?" 
61 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

Presently  a  maid 

Enters  with  the  liquor 
(Half  a  pint  of  ale 

Frothing  in  a  beaker). 
Gads!     I  didn't  know 

What  my  beating  heart  meant, 
Hebe's  self  I  thought 

Entered  the  apartment. 
As  she  came  she  smiled, 

And  the  smile  bewitching, 
On  my  word  and  honour, 

Lighted  all  the  kitchen ! 

With  a  curtsey  neat 

Greeting  the  new  comer, 
Lovely,  smiling  Peg 

Offers  me  the  rummer ; 
But  my  trembling  hand 

Up  the  beaker  tilted, 
And  the  glass  of  ale 

Every  drop  I  spilt  it : 
Spilt  it  every  drop 

(Dames,  who  read  my  volumes, 
Pardon  such  a  word) 

On  my  what-d'ye-call-'ems ! 

Witnessing  the  sight 

Of  that  dire  disaster, 
Out  began  to  laugh 

Missis,  maid,  and  master ; 
Such  a  merry  peal 

'Specially  Miss  Peg's  was 
(As  the  glass  of  ale 

Trickling  down  my  legs  was), 
62 


Daughters  of  Erin 

That  the  joyful  sound 

Of  that  mingling  laughter 

Echoed  in  my  ears 
Many  a  long  day  after. 

Such  a  silver  peal ! 

In  the  meadows  listening, 
You  who've  heard  the  bells 

Ringing  to  a  christening ; 
You  who  ever  heard 

Caradori  pretty, 
Smiling  like  an  angel, 

Singing  "  Giovinetti " ; 
Fancy  Peggy's  laugh, 

Sweet,  and  clear,  and  cheerful, 
At  my  pantaloons 

With  half  a  pint  of  beer  full! 

When  the  laugh  was  done, 

Peg,  the  pretty  hussy, 
Moved  about  the  room 

Wonderfully  busy ; 
Now  she  looks  to  see 

If  the  kettle  keep  hot ; 
Now  she  rubs  the  spoons, 

Now  she  cleans  the  teapot; 
Now  she  sets  the  cups 

Trimly  and  secure : 
Now  she  scours  a  pot, 

And  so  it  was  I  drew  her. 

Thus  it  was  I  drew  her 

Scouring  of  a  kettle, 
(Faith !  her  blushing  cheeks 

Redden'd  on  the  metal !) 
63 


The   Ladies'   Pageant 

Ah!  but  'tis  in  vain 

That  I  try  to  sketch  it ; 
The  pot  perhaps  is  like, 

But  Peggy's  face  is  wretched. 
No,  the  best  of  lead 

And  of  india-rubber 
Never  could  depict 

That  sweet  kettle-scrubber ! 

See  her  how  she  moves, 

Scarce  the  ground  she  touches ; 
Airy  as  a  fay, 

Graceful  as  a  duchess  : 
Bare  her  rounded  arm, 

Bare  her  little  leg  is, 
Vestris  never  showed 

Ankles  like  to  Peggy's  ; 
Braided  is  her  hair, 

Soft  her  look  and  modest, 
Slim  her  little  waist 

Comfortably  boddiced. 

This  I  do  declare 

Happy  is  the  laddy 
Who  the  heart  can  share 

Of  Peg  of  Limavaddy ; 
Married  if  she  were, 

Blest  would  be  the  daddy 
Of  the  children  fair 

Of  Peg  of  Limavaddy. 
Beauty  is  not  rare 

In  the  land  of  Paddy, 
Fair  beyond  compare 
Is  Peg  of  Limavaddy. 
64 


Daughters  of  Erin 

Citizen  or  Squire, 

Tory,  Whig  or  Radi- 
-cal  would  all  desire 

Peg  of  Limavaddy. 
Had  I  Homer's  fire 

Or  that  of  Sergeant  Taddy, 
Meetly  I'd  admire 

Peg  of  Limavaddy. 

And  till  I  expire 

Or  till  I  grow  mad,  I 
Will  sing  unto  my  lyre 

Peg  of  Limavaddy. 

W.  M.  Thackeray 


Norah  Creina 


LESBIA  hath  a  beaming  eye, 
But  no  one  knows  for  whom  it  beameth  ; 
Right  and  left  its  arrows  fly, 
But  what  they  aim  at,  no  one  dreameth. 
Sweeter  'tis  to  gaze  upon 
My  Norah  's  lid,  that  seldom  rises  ; 
Few  its  looks,  but  every  one, 
Like  unexpected  light,  surprises. 
O,  my  Norah  Creina,  dear, 
My  gentle,  bashful  Norah  Creina! 

Beauty  lies 

In  many  eyes  — 
But  Love's  in  yours,  my  Norah  Creina  ! 

Lesbia  wears  a  robe  of  gold  ; 
But  all  so  close  the  nymph  hath  laced  it, 
Not  a  charm  of  beauty's  mould 
Presumes  to  stay  where  Nature  placed  it. 
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The  Ladies'   Pageant 

O,  my  Norah's  gown  for  me, 

That  floats  as  wild  as  mountain  breezes, 

Leaving  every  beauty  free 

To  sink  or  swell  as  Heaven  pleases. 

Yes,  my  Norah  Creina  dear  ! 

My  simple,  graceful  Norah  Creina ! 

Nature's  dress 

Is  loveliness  — 
The  dress  you  wear,  my  Norah  Creina  ! 

Lesbia  hath  a  wit  refin'd  ; 

But  when  its  points  are  gleaming  round  us, 

Who  can  tell  if  they're  design'd 

To  dazzle  merely,  or  to  wound  us  ? 

Pillow'd  on  my  Norah's  heart, 

In  safer  slumber  Love  reposes  — 

Bed  of  peace  !  whose  roughest  part 

Is  but  the  crumpling  of  the  roses. 

O,  my  Norah  Creina  dear ! 

My  mild,  my  artless  Norah  Creina ! 

Wit,  though  bright, 

Hath  no  such  light 
As  warms  your  eyes,  my  Norah  Creina  ! 

Thomas  Moore 

The  Star  of  Slane       ^>        <^x        ^>        -^y        ^ 

YE  brilliant  muses,  who  ne'er  refuses, 
But  still  infuses  in  the  poet's  mind, 
Your  kind  sweet  favours  to  his  endeavours, 

That  his  ardent  labours  should  appear  sublime  ; 
Preserve  my  study  from  getting  muddy, 
My  idea's  ready,  so  inspire  my  brain  ; 
My  quill  refine,  as  I  write  each  line, 

On  a  nymph  divine  called  the  Star  of  Slane. 
66 


Daughters  of  Erin 

In  beauteous  Spring,  when  the  warblers  sing, 

And  their  carols  ring  through  each  fragrant  grove 
Bright  Sol  did  shine,  which  made  me  incline 

By  the  River  Boyne  for  to  go  to  rove. 
I  was  ruminating  and  meditating 

And  contemplating  as  I  paced  the  plain, 
When  a  charming  fair,  beyond  compare, 

Did  my  heart  ensnare  near  the  town  of  Slane. 

Had  Paris  seen  this  young  maid  serene, 

The  Grecian  Queen  he  would  soon  disdain, 
And  straight  embrace  this  virgin  chaste, 

And  peace  would  grace  the  whole  Trojan  plain. 
If  ancient  Caesar  could  on  her  gaze,  Sir, 

He'd  stand  amazed  for  to  view  this  dame, 
Sweet  Cleopatra  he  would  freely  part  her, 

And  his  crown  he'd  barter  for  the  Star  of  Slane. 

There's  Alexander,  that  famed  commander, 

Whose  triumphant  standard  it  did  conquer  all, 
Who  proved  a  victor  over  crowns  and  sceptres, 

And  great  warlike  structures  did  before  him  fall ; 
Should  he  behold  her,  I  will  uphold,  Sir, 

From  pole  to  pole  he  would  then  proclaim, 
For  the  human  race  in  all  that  wide  space, 

To  respect  the  chaste  blooming  Star  of  Slane. 

To  praise  her  beauty  then  is  my  duty, 

But  alas  !  I'm  footy  in  this  noble  part, 
And  to  my  sorrow,  sly  Cupid's  arrow, 

Full  deep  did  burrow  in  my  tender  heart ; 
In  pain  and  trouble  yet  I  will  struggle, 

Though  sadly  hobbled  by  my  stupid  brain, 
Yet  backed  by  Nature  I  can  tell  each  feature 

Of  this  lovely  creature  called  the  Star  of  Slane. 
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The  Ladies'   Pageant 

Her  eyes  it's  true  are  an  azure  blue, 

And  her  cheeks  the  hue  of  the  crimson  rose  ; 
Her  hair  behold  it  doth  shine  like  gold, 

And  is  finely  rolled  and  so  nicely  grows  ; 
Her  skin  is  white  as  the  snow  by  night, 

Straight  and  upright  is  her  supple  frame, 
The  chaste  Diana,  or  fair  Susanna, 

Are  eclipsed  in  grandeur  by  the  Star  of  Slane. 

Her  name  to  mention  it  might  cause  contention, 

And  it's  my  intention  for  to  breed  no  strife  ; 
For  me  to  woo  her  I  am  but  poor, 

I'm  deadly  sure  she  won't  be  my  wife  ; 
In  silent  anguish  I  here  must  languish 

Till  time  does  banish  all  my  lovesick  pain, 
And  my  humble  station  I  must  bear  with  patience, 

Since  great  exaltation  suits  the  Star  of  Slane. 

Anon. 


Mrs.  VeSCy  ^ix          ^y          -^y          -Qy          -Qy          *^y 

MRS.  MONTAGUE  always  endeavoured  to  give  the 
law,  and  to  be  the  first  person  at  her  table,  loaded 
with  the  most  weighty  plate,  and  in  her  drawing-room, 
decorated  with  the  most  costly  magnificence,  where  every 
visitor  sat  studiously  ranged  according  to  his  rank  or 
celebrity.  Mrs.  Vesey,  determined  that  all  her  friends 
should  be  at  their  ease,  would  allow  of  no  exclusive  circle, 
and  permitted  every  one  to  walk,  saunter,  lounge,  or  sit, 
according  to  pleasure.  Never  presuming  to  lead  the 
conversation,  she  only  thought  of  entertaining  her  guests. 
With  a  thoroughly  Irish  temperament,  she  was  ever 
committing  the  most  ridiculous  blunders.  Being  afflicted 
68 


Daughters  of  Erin 

with  deafness,  she  had  generally  a  reserve  of  speaking 
trumpets  on  her  wrists,  about  her  neck,  or  on  the  nearest 
mantelpiece,  and  would  fly  desperately  from  one  talker  to 
another,  eager  to  hear  the  conversation ;  and,  on  being 
too  late,  would  exclaim,  "  Well !  I  really  thought  you 
were  talking  of  something!"  or  when  these  disappoint- 
ments became  more  frequent,  "  I  can't  conceive  why  it 
is  that  nobody  talks  to-night.  I  can't  catch  a  word." 
"  Don't  mind  your  dress !  Come  in  your  blue  stock- 
ings ! "  she  had  answered  to  a  gentleman  whom  she  was 
inviting  to  one  of  her  evening  entertainments,  years  ago, 
at  Bath ;  and  hence  arose  the  word  blue-stocking,  though 
the  meaning  it  afterwards  popularly  assumed  was  how- 
ever more  justly  derived  from  the  associations  of  Mrs. 
Montague's  numerous  and  ambitious  meetings.  Mrs. 
Vesey,  with  other  innumerable  peculiarities,  was  also 
remarkable  for  a  very  short  memory.  As  she  was 
speaking  one  day,  with  much  indignation,  against  ladies 
who  married  a  second  time,  her  attention  was  politely 
called  to  the  fact  of  Mr.  Vesey  being  her  second  husband. 
She  rejoined,  with  astonishment,  "Bless  me!  my  dear,  I 
had  quite  forgotten  it." 

T.  Macknight 

A  Thorough-bred        -^        *cs        •^        ^>        -o* 

SPRUNG    from   a   famous   north-country  stock  trans- 
planted  three    centuries    ago   into   Ireland,  she    is 
pure-bred  through  many  generations,  and   shows   it.     A 
little  under  the  middle  height,  but  perfectly  shaped  and 
proportioned,  she  bears  herself  so  beautifully,  and  if  need 
be    so    proudly,    that    showier    women    seem    rustic   or 
insignificant  beside  her.     Or  is  it  less  the  distinction  of 
her  carriage  that  has  this  effect,  than  the  keen  edge  and 
69 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

exquisite  finish  of  her  form  and  features  ?  Or  is  it  rather 
the  atmosphere  and  effluence  of  essential  womanhood 
that  surround  her?  Or  the  vividness  of  the  inner  light 
that  shines  through  her?  Her  face  is  the  transparent 
vesture  of  her  spirit,  and  her  looks  a  true  mirror  of  the 
poignancy  and  integrity  of  her  feelings.  Her  features 
are  large  and  noble,  and  modelled  with  the  last  subtlety 
of  refinement ;  at  the  same  time  they  are  tinted  with  the 
ebb  and  flow  of  so  delicate  a  blood,  and  change  so 
swiftly  and  harmoniously  with  the  motions  of  her  mind, 
that  it  is  by  play  of  expression  even  more  than  by  purity 
of  design  that  they  charm  and  haunt  you. 

Her  voice  adds  to  persuasion  candour,  and  to  candour 
kindness,  in  evidence  which  receives,  although  it  needs 
not,  a  sure  corroboration  in  her  eyes.  Waiting  for  her 
smile  is  the  most  delightful  of  anticipations,  and  when  it 
comes  it  is  always  dearer  than  you  remembered,  and 
irradiates  all  who  are  in  her  company  with  happiness. 
When  she  sings,  the  full  richness  of  her  spirit  passes  into 
her  utterance,  and  those  who  hear  her  are  transported. 
Such  power  upon  others  has  not  come  to  her  without  the 
discipline  of  extreme  suffering.  By  nature  sensitively  im- 
patient, swift,  and  proud,  she  has  had  to  bear  a  double  and 
treble  share  not  only  of  life's  cares  but  of  its  agonies. 
They  have  obtained  her  strength  but  not  her  courage,  and 
left  their  mark  only  in  a  beautiful  underlying  sadness 
which  enriches  and  makes  sacred  all  her  mirth.  For 
mirthful  she  can  still  be;  fun  and  mischief  still  lurk  un- 
quenchably  in  those  faithful  eyes ;  the  youngest  has  not 
so  young  a  laugh  as  she,  and  she  will  still  leap  in  her 
chair  and  clap  hands  with  childish  glee  (and  nothing 
becomes  her  better)  at  the  anticipation  of  any  simple  gift 
or  pleasure. 

As  for  the  higher  pleasures  of  art  and  nature,  her 
70 


Daughters  of  Erin 

presence  enhances  them  inexpressibly.  In  the  illumina- 
tion of  beautiful  things,  she  seems  to  reflect  and  grow 
one  with  them ;  without  pretension  or  affectation  of 
criticism,  she  takes  into  herself  their  very  essence,  which 
becomes  part  thenceforward  of  the  affluence  of  her  being. 
When  she  hears  the  best  music  (and  she  will  hear  none 
but  the  best)  every  lineament  of  her  countenance  is  trans- 
figured. Her  friends  not  only  learn  in  her  company 
how  to  enjoy,  but  in  her  absence  no  very  choice  experi- 
ence can  befall  them  but  of  her  they  will  be  reminded, 
and  to  her  involuntarily  give  thanks  for  the  best  part  of 
what  they  feel. 

But  life  itself  is  most  truly  of  all  her  sphere.  She  has 
the  genius  of  the  heart,  and  in  her  own  spirit  a  blend  of 
sensitiveness  and  high  honour  and  fortitude  which  makes 
of  her  a  priceless  counsellor.  Comfort  abounds  when  she 
is  by :  something  bids  all  who  are  not  ungentle,  men, 
women,  and  children,  turn  to  her  and  trust  her.  She 
cools  and  soothes  your  secret  smart  before  ever  you  can 
name  it ;  s"he  divines  and  shares  your  hidden  joy,  or 
shames  your  fretfulness  with  loving  laughter :  she  unravels 
the  perplexities  of  your  conscience,  and  finds  out  some- 
thing better  in  you  than  you  knew  of;  she  fills  you  not 
only  with  generous  resolutions  but  with  power  to  persist  in 
what  you  have  resolved. 

In  the  fearlessness  of  her  purity  she  can  afford  the 
frankness  of  her  affections,  and  shows  how  every  fascina- 
tion of  her  sex  may  in  the  most  open  freedom  be  the 
most  honourably  secure.  Yet  in  a  world  of  men  and 
women,  such  an  one  cannot  walk  without  kindling  once 
and  again  a  dangerous  flame  before  she  is  aware.  As  in 
her  nature  there  is  no  room  for  vanity,  she  never  foresees 
these  masculine  combustions,  but  has  a  wonderful  art  and 
gentleness  in  allaying  them,  and  is  accustomed  to  convert 


The   Ladies'   Pageant 

the  claims  and  cravings  of  passion  into  the  life-long  loy- 
alty of  grateful  and  contented  friendship. 

With  her  own  sex  she  is  the  soul  of  loyalty,  and  women 
love  and  trust  her  even  more  devotedly  than  men.  She 
loves  to  be  loved,  and  likes  to  be  praised ;  but  no  amount 
of  love  or  praise  can  make  her  believe  that  there  is  much 
remarkable  about  her.  If  she  could  read  this  testimony 
to  her  worth  she  would  be  both  pleased  and  moved,  but 
between  smiles  and  tears,  and  somewhat  of  a  loving  shame, 
would  remain  unconvinced  though  the  deposition  should 
be  borne  by  him  who,  owing  her  whatever  he  is  worth, 
has  the  best  right  to  speak,  and  witness  by  all  the  rest 
who,  sharing  the  treasure  of  her  friendship,  surround  her 
with  their  just  allegiance  in  the  next  degree. 

X. 


VII 
THE    TENDER   NORTH 


Though  from  the  North  the  damsel  came, 

All  Spring  is  in  her  breast, 
Her  skin  is  of  the  driven  snow, 

But  sun-shine  all  the  rest. 

Anon. 


Robbie's  Sum  of  the  Whole  Matter        ^>     ^> 

T^HERE'S  nought  but  care  on  every  han' 
J-      In  every  hour  that  passes,  O ! 
What  signifies  the  life  of  man, 
An'  'twere  na  for  the  lasses,  O ! 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  O! 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  O ! 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spend, 
Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  O ! 

The  warly  race  may  riches  chase, 
And  riches  still  may  fly  them,  O ! 

And  tho'  at  last  they  catch  them  fast. 
Their  hearts  can  ne'er  enjoy  them,  O ! 

73 


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Green  grow  the  rashes,  O  ! 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  O ! 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spend, 
Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  O ! 

But  gie  me  a  canny  hour  at  e'en, 

My  arms  about  my  deary,  O! 
And  warly  cares  and  warly  men 
May  all  gang  tapsalteerie,  O ! 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  O ! 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  O ! 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spend, 
Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  O! 

For  you  sae  douse,  wha  sneer  at  this, 

Ye're  nought  but  senseless  asses,  O! 
The  wisest  man  the  warld  e'er  saw, 
He  dearly  lov'd  the  lasses,  O ! 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  O! 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  O! 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spend, 
Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  O ! 

Auld  Nature  swears  the  lovely  dears 
Her  noblest  wark  she  classes,  O ! 
Her  prentice  han'  she  tried  on  man, 
And  then  she  made  the  lasses,  O! 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  O! 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  O ! 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spend, 
Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  O ! 

Robert  Burns 


74 


The  Tender  North 

Miss  Jane  Scott      *^      ^^      <^y      ^>      ^^      <. 

^HE  Welsh  girl  is  pretty, 
-L     The  English  girl  fair, 
The  Irish  deem'd  witty, 

The  French  dtbonnaire ; 
Though  all  may  invite  me, 

I'd  value  them  not ; 
The  charms  that  delight  me 
I  find  in  a  Scott. 

John  Gay 


Bonnie  Lesley 


OSAW  ye  bonnie  Lesley 
As  she  gaed  ower  the  border  ? 
She's  gane,  like  Alexander, 
To  spread  her  conquests  farther. 

To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 
And  love  but  her  for  ever ; 

For  nature  made  her  what  she  is, 
And  never  made  anither  ! 

Thou  art  a  queen,  fair  Lesley, 
Thy  subjects  we,  before  thee ; 

Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley, 
The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee. 

The  deil  he  couldna  scaith  thee, 
Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee ; 

He'd  look  into  thy  bonnie  face, 
And  say  "  I  canna  wrang  thee !  " 

75 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

The  Powers  aboon  will  tent  thee ; 

Misfortune  sha'na  steer  thee ; 
Thou'rt  like  themselves  sae  lovely 

That  ill  they'll  ne'er  let  near  thee. 

Return  again,  fair  Lesley, 

Return  to  Caledonie! 
That  we  may  brag  we  hae  a  lass 

There's  nane  again  sae  bonnie. 

Robert  Burns 


O 


Mary  Morison    -Qy       ^^y       *v>       -<^x       *. 

MARY,  at  thy  window  be, 
It  is  the  wish'd,  the  trysted  hour! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see 
That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor : 
How  blythely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 
A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun, 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 
The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 

Yestreen,  when  to  the  trembling  string 
The  dance  gaed  thro'  the  lighted  ha', 
To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing,  — 
I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw : 
Tho'  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 
And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 
I  sigh'd,  and  said  amang  them  a', 
"  Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison." 

O  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace 
Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  dee  ? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 
Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee  ? 
76 


The  Tender  North 

If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gi«, 
At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown  ; 
A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 
The  thought  o'  Mary  Morison. 

Robert  Burns 


Jeanie  Morrison  -^       ^>       "^       x^ 

T'VE  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 
1    Through  many  a  weary  way  ; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day  ! 
The  fire  that's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en, 

May  weel  be  black  'gin  Yule ; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

O  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

The  thochts  o'  bygone  years 
Still  fling  their  shadows  ower  my  path, 

And  blind  my  een  wi'  tears  : 
They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears, 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine, 
As  memory  idly  summons  up 

The  blythe  blinks  o'  langsyne. 

Twas  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

'Twas  then  we  twa  did  part ; 
Sweet  time  — sad  time  !  twa  bairns  at  scule, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart  ! 
'Twas  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear ; 
And  tones  and  looks  and  smiles  were  shed, 

Remembered  evermair. 
77 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

I  wonder,  Jeanie.  aften  yet, 

When  sitting  on  that  bink, 
Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loof  lock'd  in  loof, 

What  our  wee  heads  could  think  ? 
When  baith  bent  doun  ower  ae  braid  page, 

Wi'  ae  buik  on  our  knee, 
Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 

My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

Oh,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame, 
Whene'er  the  scule-weans  laughin'  said, 

We  cleek'd  thegither  hame  ? 
And  mind  ye  o1  the  Saturdays 

(The  scule  then  skailt  at  noon), 
When  we  ran  aff  to  speel  the  braes  — 

The  broomy  braes  o'  June  ? 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about, 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea, 
As  ane  by  ane  the  thochts  rush  back 

O'  scule-time  and  o'  thee. 
O  mornin1  life  !  O  mornin1  luve  ! 

O  lichtsome  days  and  lang, 
When  hinnied  hopes  around  our  hearts 

Like  simmer  blossoms  sprang  ! 

Oh  mind  ye,  luve,  how  aft  we  left 

The  deavin'  dinsome  toun, 
To  wander  by  the  green  burnside, 

And  hear  its  waters  croon  ? 
The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our  heads, 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 
And  in  the  gloamin1  o'  the  wood 

The  throssil  whusslit  sweet ;  — 
78 


The  Tender  North 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sang  to  the  trees, 
And  we,  with  Nature's  heart  in  tune, 

Concerted  harmonies ; 
And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Ay,  ay,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trinkled  doun  your  cheek, 
Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 

Had  ony  power  to  speak! 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time, 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young, 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled,  unsung! 

I  marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Gin  I  hae  been  to  thee 
As  closely  twined  wi'  earliest  thochts 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me  ? 
Oh,  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine ; 
Oh,  say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  grit 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  langsyne? 

I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west 

I've  borne  a  weary  lot ; 
But  in  my  wanderings  far  or  near 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart 

Still  travels  on  its  way ; 
And  channels  deeper  as  it  rins, 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 
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The   Ladies'   Pageant 

O  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Since  we  were  sindered  young, 
I've  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 

The  music  o1  your  tongue  ; 
But  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness, 

And  happy  could  I  dee, 
Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 

O'  bygane  days  and  me ! 

William  Motherwell 


Y1 


Highland  Mary         ^y         -^        ^>        *c> 

I 

banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 
The  castle  o1  Montgomery! 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie  : 
There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry ;     ' 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 
O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloomed  the  gay  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasped  her  to  my  bosom! 
The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie ; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  mony  a  vow  and  locked  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fir  tender ; 
And  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursel's  asunder ; 
80 


The  Tender  North 

But,  oh !  fell  death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early ! 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary. 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I  aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly  ; 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 

Robert  Burns 

II 

September  18,  1870.  In  the  sunset  to-day,  as  I  walked 
out  for  the  last  time  toward  the  tomb  of  Highland  Mary, 
I  met  a  whole  line  of  splendid  Scotch  lassies  with  sheaves 
of  wheat  on  their  heads  and  sickles  on  their  arms.  Their 
feet  were  bare,  their  legs  were  bare  to  the  knees.  Their 
great  strong  arms  were  shapely  as  you  can  conceive ; 
they  were  tall,  and  their  lifted  faces  were  radiant  with 
health  and  happiness.  I  stepped  aside  in  the  narrow 
road  to  enjoy  the  scene  and  let  them  pass.  They  were 
going  down  the  sloping  road  toward  some  thatched 
cottages  by  the  sea;  I  toward  the  mountains.  How 
beautiful !  I  uncovered  my  head  as  I  stepped  respectfully 
aside.  But  giving  the  road  to  women  here  seems  unusual, 
and  one  beautiful  girl,  with  hair  like  the  golden  sheaves 
she  carried,  came  up  to  me,  talked  and  laughed  and 
bantered  in  words  that  I  could  not  understand,  much 
as  I  wanted  to.  ...  And  then  the  beautiful  picture 
G  81 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

moved  on.     O   Burns,  Burns,  come   back   to   the  banks 
of  bonny  Boon!     It  is  worth  while. 

How  beautiful  she  was !     Why,  she 
Was  inspiration.    She  was  born 
To  walk  God's  summer-hills  at  morn, 
Nor  waste  her  by  the  cold  North  Sea. 
What  wonder,  that  her  soul's  white  wings 
Beat  at  the  bars,  like  living  things  ? 

I  know  she  sighed,  and  wandered  through 
The  fields  alone,  and  ofttime  drew 
Her  hand  above  her  head,  and  swept 
The  lonesome  sea,  and  ever  kept 
Her  face  to  sea,  as  if  she  knew 
Some  day,  some  near  or  distant  day, 
Her  destiny  should  come  that  way. 

Joaquin  Miller 
From  "  Memorie  and  Rime."    By  permission  of  the  author. 


Jean 


OF  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 
I  dearly  like  the  West, 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best : 
There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 

And  mony  a  hill  between  ; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 
Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair : 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air : 
82 


The  Tender  North 

There's  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green, 
There's  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 

O  blaw  ye  westlin  winds,  blaw  saft 

Amang"  the  leafy  trees  ; 
Wi'  balmy  gale,  frae  hill  and  dale 

Bring  hame  the  laden  bees  ; 
And  bring  the  lassie  back  to  me 

That's  aye  sae  neat  and  clean ; 
Ae  blink  o1  her  wad  banish  care, 

Sae  charming  is  my  Jean. 

What  sighs  and  vows  amang  the  knowes 

Hae  pass'd  atween  us  twa ! 
How  fond  to  meet,  how  wae  to  part 

The  day  she  gaed  awa! 
The  Powers  aboon  can  only  ken 

To  whom  the  heart  is  seen, 
That  nane  can  be  sae  dear  to  me 

As  my  sweet  lovely  Jean ! 

Robert  Burns 


VIII 
WAYSIDE   FLOWERS 

The  Girls  of  Bethlehem        *^y        xc^        <^x        <^x 

SO,  I  say,  when  you  see,  and  hear  them,  those  romp- 
ing girls  of  Bethlehem  will  gladden  your  very  soul. 
Distant  at  first,  and  then  nearer  and  nearer  the  timid 
flock  will  gather  around  you  with  their  large  burning 
eyes  gravely  fixed  against  yours,  so  that  they  see  into 
your  brain,  and  if  you  imagine  evil  against  them  they 
will  know  of  your  ill  thought  before  it  is  yet  well  born, 
and  will  fly  and  be  gone  in  the  moment.  But  presently, 
if  you  will  only  look  virtuous  enough  to  prevent  alarm, 
and  vicious  enough  to  avoid  looking  silly,  the  blithe 
maidens  will  draw  nearer  and  nearer  to  you,  and  soon 
there  will  be  one,  the  bravest  of  the  sisters,  who  will 
venture  right  up  to  your  side,  and  touch  the  hem  of  your 
coat  in  playful  defiance  of  the  danger,  and  then  the  rest 
will  follow  the  daring  of  their  youthful  leader,  and  gather 
close  round  you,  and  hold  a  shrill  controversy  on  the 
wondrous  formation  that  you  call  a  hat,  and  the  cunning 
of  the  hands  that  clothed  you  with  cloth  so  fine ;  and 
then,  growing  more  profound  in  their  researches,  they 
will  pass  from  the  study  of  jour  mere  dress  to  a  serious 
84 


Wayside  Flowers 

contemplation  of  your  stately  height,  and  your  nut-brown 
hair,  and  the  ruddy  glow  of  your  English  cheeks.  And 
if  they  catch  a  glimpse  of  your  ungloved  fingers,  then 
again  will  they  make  the  air  ring  with  their  sweet  scr.eams 
of  delight  and  amazement,  as  they  compare  the  fairness 
of  your  hand  with  the  hues  of  your  sunburnt  face,  or  with 
their  own  warmer  tints ;  instantly  the  ringleader  of  the 
gentle  rioters  imagines  a  new  sin ;  with  tremulous  bold- 
ness she  touches  —  then  grasps  your  hand,  and  smooths 
it  gently  betwixt  her  own,  and  prys  curiously  into  its 
make  and  colour,  as  though  it  were  silk  of  Damascus, 
or  shawl  of  Cashmere.  And  when  they  see  you  even 
then,  still  sage,  and  gentle,  the  joyous  girls  will  suddenly, 
and  screamingly,  and  all  at  once,  explain  to  each  other 
that  you  are  surely  quite  harmless  and  innocent  —  a  lion 
that  makes  no  spring  —  a  bear  that  never  hugs  —  and  upon 
this  faith,  one  after  the  other,  they  will  take  your  passive 
hand,  and  strive  to  explain  it,  and  make  it  a  theme,  and 
a  controversy.  But  the  one  —  the  fairest,  and  the  sweetest 
of  all,  is  yet  the  most  timid ;  she  shrinks  from  the  daring 
deeds  of  her  playmates,  and  seeks  shelter  behind  their 
sleeves,  and  tries  to  screen  her  glowing  consciousness 
from  the  eyes  that  look  upon  her;  but  her  laughing 
sisters  will  have  none  of  this  cowardice  —  they  vow  that 
the  fair  one  shall  be  their  accomplice  —  shall  share  their 
dangers — shall  tough  the  hand  of  the  stranger;  they 
seize  her  small  wrist,  and  drag  her  forward  by  force,  and 
at  last,  whilst  yet  she  strives  to  turn  away,  and  to  cover  up 
her  whole  soul  under  the  folds  of  downcast  eyelids,  they 
vanquish  her  utmost  strength  —  they  vanquish  her  utmost 
modesty,  and  marry  her  hand  to  yours.  The  quick  pulse 
springs  from  her  fingers,  and  throbs  like  a  whisper  upon 
your  listening  palm.  For  an  instant  her  large  timid  eyes 
are  upon  you  —  in  an  instant  they  are  shrouded  again, 
85 


The   Ladies'    Pageant 

and  there  comes  a  blush  so  burning  that  the  frightened 
girls  stay  their  shrill  laughter,  as  though  they  had  played 
too  perilously,  and  harmed  their  gentle  sister.  A  moment, 
and  all  with  a  sudden  intelligence  turn  away,  and  fly  like 
deer,  yet  soon  again  like  deer  they  wheel  round  and  return, 
and  stand,  and  gaze  upon  the  danger,  until  they  grow  brave 
once  more. 

"I  regret  to  observe  that  the  removal  of  the  moral 
restraint  imposed  by  the  presence  of  the  Mahometan 
inhabitants  has  led  to  a  certain  degree  of  boisterous, 
though  innocent  levity,  in  the  bearing  of  the  Christians, 
and  more  especially  in  the  demeanour  of  those  who 
belong  to  the  younger  portion  of  the  female  population, 
but  I  feel  assured  that  a  more  thorough  knowledge  of 
the  principles  of  their  own  pure  religion  will  speedily 
restore  these  young  people  to  habits  of  propriety,  even 
more  strict  than  those  which  were  imposed  upon  them 
by  the  authority  of  their  Mahometan  brethren."  Bah! 
thus  you  might  chaunt,  if  you  chose ;  but  loving  the 
truth,  you  will  not  so  disown  sweet  Bethlehem— you  will 
not  disown,  nor  dissemble  your  right  good  hearty  delight, 
when  you  find,  as  though  in  a  Desert,  this  gushing  spring 
of  fresh,  and  joyous  girlhood. 

A.  W.  Kinglake 

Fayaway          *c^        ^>        *Qy     •    <^        <^-        *o 

FROM  the  rest  of  these,  however,  I  must   except  the 
beauteous   nymph   Fayaway,   who  was  my  peculiar 
favourite.     Her  free  pliant  figure  was  the  very  perfection 
of  female  grace  and  beauty.     Her  complexion  was  a  rich 
and  mantling  olive,  and  when  watching    the  glow  upon 
her   cheeks    I    could     almost     swear    that    beneath    the 
transparent  medium  there  lurked   the  blushes  of  a  faint 
86 


Wayside  Flowers 

vermilion.  The  face  of  this  girl  was  a  rounded  oval, 
and  each  feature  as  perfectly  formed  as  the  heart  or 
imagination  of  man  could  desire.  Her  full  lips,  when 
parted  with  a  smile,  disclosed  teeth  of  a  dazzling 
whiteness  ;  and  when  her  rosy  mouth  opened  with  a 
burst  of  merriment,  they  looked  like  the  milk-white 
seeds  of  the  "  arta,"  a  fruit  of  the  valley,  which,  when 
cleft  in  twain,  shows  them  reposing  in  rows  on  either 
side,  imbedded  in  the  rich  and  juicy  pulp.  Her  hair 
of  the  deepest  brown,  parted  irregularly  in  the  middle, 
flowed  in  natural  ringlets  over  her  shoulders,  and 
whenever  she  chanced  to  stoop,  fell  over  and  hid  from 
view  her  lovely  bosom.  Gazing  into  the  depths  of  her 
strange  blue  eyes,  when  she  was  in  a  contemplative 
mood,  they  seemed  most  placid  yet  unfathomable  ;  but 
when  illuminated  by  some  lively  emotion,  they  beamed 
upon  the  beholder  like  stars.  The  hands  of  Fayaway 
were  as  soft  and  delicate  as  those  of  any  countess  ;  for 
an  entire  exemption  from  rude  labour  marks  the  girlhood 
and  even  prime  of  a  Typee  woman's  life.  Her  feet, 
though  wholly  exposed,  were  as  diminutive  and  fairly 
shaped  as  those  which  peep  from  beneath  the  skirts  of 
a  Lima  lady's  dress.  The  skin  of  this  young  creature, 
from  continued  ablutions  and  the  use  of  mollifying 
ointments,  was  inconceivably  smooth  and  soft. 

I  may  succeed,  perhaps,  in  particularising  some  of  the 
individual  features  of  Fayaway's  beauty,  but  that  general 
loveliness  of  appearance  which  they  all  contributed  to 
produce  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe.  The  easy  un- 
studied graces  of  a  child  of  nature  like  this,  breathing 
from  infancy  an  atmosphere  of  perpetual  summer,  and 
nurtured  by  the  simple  fruits  of  the  earth  ;  enjoying  a 
perfect  freedom  from  care  and  anxiety,  and  removed 
effectually  from  all  injurious  tendencies,  strike  the  eye 
87 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

in  a  manner  which  cannot  be  portrayed.  This  picture 
is  no  fancy  sketch  ;  it  is  drawn  from  the  most  vivid 
recollections  of  the  person  delineated. 

Fayaway  —  I  must  avow  the  fact  —  for  the  most  part 
clung  to  the  primitive  and  summer  garb  of  Eden.  But 
how  becoming  the  costume  !  It  showed  her  fine  figure 
to  the  best  possible  advantage  ;  and  nothing  could  have 
been  better  adapted  to  her  peculiar  style  of  beauty. 
On  ordinary  occasions  she  was  habited  precisely  as  I 
have  described  the  two  youthful  savages  whom  we  had 
met  on  first  entering  the  valley.  At  other  times,  when 
rambling  among  the  groves,  or  visiting  at  the  houses  of 
her  acquaintances,  she  wore  a  tunic  of  white  tappa, 
reaching  from  her  waist  to  a  little  below  the  knees  ;  and 
when  exposed  for  any  length  of  time  to  the  sun,  she 
invariably  protected  herself  from  its  rays  by  a  floating 
mantle  of  the  same  material,  loosely  gathered  about  the 
person.  Her  gala  dress  will  be  described  hereafter. 

Though  in  my  eyes,  at  least,  Fayaway  was  indisputably 
the  loveliest  female  I  saw  in  Typee,  yet  the  description 
I  have  given  of  her  will  in  some  measure  apply  to  nearly 
all  the  youthful  portion  of  her  sex  in  the  valley.  Judge 
ye  then,  reader,  what  beautiful  creatures  they  must  have 
been. 

Herman  Melville 


Phfflis 


TN  petticoat  of  green 

*     With  hair  about  her  een, 


Phillis,  beneath  an  oak, 
Sat  milking  her  fair  flock  : 

'Mongst  that  sweet-strained  moisture  (rare  delight) 
Her  hand  seemed  milk,  in  milk  it  was  so  white. 

Drummond  of  Hawthornden 
88 


Wayside  Flowers 

Molly  Mog,  or  the  Fair  Maid  of  the  Inn        -^ 

SAYS  my  uncle,  "  I  pray  you  discover 
What  hath  been  the  cause  of  your  woes, 
Why  you  pine  and  you  whine  like  a  lover  ?  " 
"  I  have  seen  Molly  Mog  of  the  Rose." 

"  O,  nephew  !  your  grief  is  but  folly, 
In  town  you  may  find  better  prog  ; 

Half-a-crown  there  will  get  you  a  Molly, 
A  Molly  much  better  than  Mog." 

"  I  know  that  by  wits  'tis  recited 
That  women  at  best  are  a  clog  ; 

But  I  am  not  so  easily  frighted 
From  loving  of  sweet  Molly  Mog. 

"  The  school-boys'  desire  is  a  play-day, 
The  school-masters1  joy  is  to  flog  ; 

The  milk-maids'  delight  is  on  May-day, 
But  mine  is  on  sweet  Molly  Mog. 

"  Will-a-wisp  leads  the  trav'ller  a-gadding 
•    Thro'  ditch,  and  thro'  quagmire,  and  bog  ; 
But  no  light  can  set  me  a-madding 
Like  the  eyes  of  my  sweet  Molly  Mog. 

"  For  guineas  in  otherjnen's  breeches 
Your  gamesters  will  palm  and  will  cog  ; 

But  I  envy  them  none  of  their  riches, 
So  I  may  win  sweet  Molly  Mog. 

"  The  heart  when  half  wounded  is  changing, 
It  here  and  there  leaps  like  a  frog  ; 

But  my  heart  can  never  be  ranging, 

'Tis  so  fix'd  upon  sweet  Molly  Mog.  .  .   . 


The   Ladies'   Pageant 

"  I  feel  I'm  in  love  to  distraction, 

My  senses  all  lost  in  a  fog ; 
And  nothing  can  give  satisfaction 

But  thinking  of  sweet  Molly  Mog. 

"  A  letter  when  I  am  inditing, 
Comes  Cupid  and  gives  me  a  jog, 

And  fills  all  the  paper  with  writing 
Of  nothing  but  sweet  Molly  Mog. 

"  If  I  would  not  give  up  the  three  Graces, 

I  wish  I  were  hang'd  like  a  dog, 
And  at  Court  all  the  drawing-room  faces, 

For  a  glance  of  my  sweet  Molly  Mog. 

u  Those  faces  want  nature  and  spirit, 

And  seem  as  cut  out  of  a  log  ; 
Juno,  Venus,  and  Pallas's  merit 

Unite  in  my  sweet  Molly  Mog.  .  .  . 

«  Were  Virgil  alive  with  his  Phillis, 

And  writing  another  Eclogue  ; 
Both  his  Phillis  and  fair  Amaryllis 

He'd  give  up  for  sweet  Molly  Mog." 

John  Gay 


The  Romany  Girl      ^x        <^x        <>*        -cy 

•"~pHE  sun  goes  down,  and  with  him  takes 

-*-      The  coarseness  of  my  poor  attire  ; 

The  fair  moon  mounts,  and  aye  the  flame 

Of  Gypsy  beauty  blazes  higher. 

90 


Wayside  Flowers 

Pale  Northern  girls !  you  scorn  our  race  ; 
You  captives  of  your  air-tight  halls, 
Wear  out  indoors  your  sickly  days, 
But  leave  us  the  horizon  walls. 

And  if  I  take  you,  dames,  to  task, 
And  say  it  frankly  without  guile, 
Then  you  are  Gypsies  in  a  mask, 
And  I  the  lady  all  the  while. 

If,  on  the  heath,  below  the  moon, 
I  court  and  play  with  paler  blood, 
Me  false  to  mine  dare  whisper  none, 
One  sallow  horseman  knows  me  good. 

Go,  keep  your  cheek's  rose  from  the  rain, 
For  teeth  and  hair  with  shopmen  deal ; 
My  swarthy  tint  is  in  the  grain, 
The  rocks  and  forest  know  it  real. 

The  wild  air  bloweth  in  our  lungs, 
The  keen  stars  twinkle  in  our  eyes, 
The  birds  gave  us  our  wily  tongues, 
The  panther  in  our  dances  flies. 

You  doubt  we  read  the  stars  on  high, 
Nathless  we  read  your  fortunes  true ; 
The  stars  may  hide  in  the  upper  sky, 
But  without  glass  we  fathom  you. 

fi.  W.  Emerson 


The   Ladies'    Pageant 


Ann 


ANOTHER  person  there  was,  at  that  time,  whom  I 
have  since  sought  to  trace,  with  far  deeper 
earnestness,  and  with  far  deeper  sorrow  at  my  failure. 
This  person  was  a  young  woman,  and  one  of  that 
unhappy  class  who  belong  to  the  outcasts  and  pariahs 
of  our  female  population.  I  feel  no  shame,  nor  have 
any  reason  to  feel  it,  in  avowing  that  I  was  then  on 
familiar  and  friendly  terms  with  many  women  in  that 
unfortunate  condition.  Smile  not,  reader  too  carelessly 
facile!  Frown  not,  reader  too  unseasonably  austere! 
Little  call  was  there  here  either  for  smiles  or 
frowns.  .  .  . 

For  many  weeks  I  had  walked,  at  nights,  with  this 
poor  friendless  girl  up  and  down  Oxford  Street,  or  had 
rested  with  her  on  steps  and  under  the  shelter  of 
porticos.  She  could  not  be  so  old  as  myself:  she 
told  me,  indeed,  that  she  had  not  completed  her 
sixteenth  year.  .  .  . 

One  night,  when  we  were  pacing  slowly  along  Oxford 
Street,  and  after  a  day  when  I  had  felt  unusually  ill 
and  faint,  I  requested  her  to  turn  off  with  me  into 
Soho  Square.  Thither  we  went ;  and  we  sat  down  on 
the  steps  of  a  house,  which  to  this  hour  I  never  pass 
without  a  pang  of  grief,  and  an  inner  act  of  homage  to 
the  spirit  of  that  unhappy  girl,  in  memory  of  the  noble 
act  which  she  there  performed.  Suddenly,  as  we  sat, 
I  grew  much  worse.  I  had  been  leaning  my  head 
against  her  bosom,  and  all  at  once  I  sank  from  her 
arms,  and  fell  backwards  on  the  steps.  From  the 
sensations  I  then  had,  I  felt  an  inner  conviction  of  the 
liveliest  kind,  that,  without  some  powerful  and  reviving 
92 


Wayside  Flowers 

stimulus,  I  should  either  have  died  on  the  spot,  of 
should,  at  least,  have  sunk  to  a  point  of  exhaustion 
from  which  all  re-ascent,  under  my  friendless  circum- 
stances, would  soon  have  become  hopeless.  Then  it 
was,  at  this  crisis  of  my  fate,  that  my  poor  orphan 
companion,  who  had  herself  met  with  little  but  injuries 
in  this  world,  stretched  out  a  saving  hand  to  me. 
Uttering  a  cry  of  terror,  but  without  a  moment's  delay, 
she  ran  off  into  Oxford  Street,  and  in  less  time  than 
could  be  imagined,  returned  to  me  with  a  glass  of  port- 
wine  and  spices,  that  acted  upon  my  empty  stomach 
(which  at  that  time  would  have  rejected  all  solid  food) 
with  an  instantaneous  power  of  restoration;  and  for 
this  glass  the  generous  girl,  without  a  murmur,  paid 
out  of  her  own  humble  purse,  at  a  time,  be  it  re- 
membered, when  she  had  scarcely  wherewithal  to 
purchase  the  bare  necessaries  of  life,  and  when  she 
could  have  no  reason  to  expect  that  I  should  ever  be 
able  to  reimburse  her.  O  youthful  benefactress !  how 
often  in  succeeding  years,  standing  in  solitary  places, 
and  thinking  of  thee  with  grief  of  heart  and  perfect 
love — how  often  have  I  wished  that,  as  in  ancient  times 
the  curse  of  a  father  was  believed  to  have  a  supernatural 
power,  and  to  pursue  its  object  with  a  fatal  necessity  of 
self-fulfilment,  even  so  the  benediction  of  a  heart 
oppressed  with  gratitude  might  have  a  like  prerogative; 
might  have  power  given  it  from  above  to  chase,  to 
haunt,  to  waylay,  to  pursue  thee  into  the  central  dark- 
ness of  a  London  brothel,  or  (if  it  were  possible)  even 
into  the  darkness  of  the  grave,  there  to  awaken  thee 
with  an  authentic  message  of  peace  and  forgiveness, 
and  of  final  reconciliation!  .  .  . 

I  suppose  that,  in  the  literal  and  unrhetorical  use  of 
the  word    myriad,   I    must,   on    my   different    visits    to 
93 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

London,  have  looked  into  many  myriads  of  female 
faces,'  in  the  hope  of  meeting  Ann.  I  should  know  her 
again  amongst  a  thousand,  and  if  seen  but  for  a  moment. 
Handsome  she  was  not;  but  she  had  a  sweet  ex- 
pression of  countenance,  and  a  peculiarly  graceful 
carriage  of  the  head.  I  sought  her,  I  have  said,  in 
hope.  So  it  was  for  years ;  but  now  I  should  fear  to 
see  her;  and  her  cough,  which  grieved  me  when  I 
parted  with  her,  is  now  my  consolation.  Now  I 
wish  to  see  her  no  longer,  but  think  of  her,  more 
gladly,  as  one  long  since  laid  in  the  grave — in  the 
grave,  I  would  hope,  of  a  Magdalen;  taken  away 
before  injuries  and  cruelty  had  blotted  out  and  trans- 
figured her  ingenuous  nature,  or  the  brutalities  of 
ruffians  had  completed  the  ruin  they  had  begun. 

Thomas  de  Quincey 


94 


IX 
THE    HEROINES 

Godiva         ^         ^         ^y         ^>         -^x         -Cy         ^ 

S~*ODIVA.  My  husband,  my  husband !  Will  you  par- 
LZ  don  the  city  ? 

Leofric.  Sir  bishop!  I  could  not  think  you  would 
have  seen  her  in  this  plight.  Will  I  pardon?  Yea, 
Godiva,  by  the  holy  rood,  I  will  pardon  the  city,  when 
thou  ridest  naked  at  noontide  through  the  streets. 

Godiva.  O  my  dear  cruel  Leofric,  where  is  the  heart 
you  gave  me?  It  was  not  so!  Can  mine  have  hardened 
it? 

Bishop.  Earl,  thou  abashest  thy  spouse ;  she  turneth 
pale  and  weepeth.  Lady  Godiva,  peace  be  with  thee. 

Godiva.  Thanks,  holy  man!  peace  will  be  with  me 
when  peace  is  with  your  city.  Did  you  hear -my  lord's 
cruel  words  ? 

Bishop.  I  did,  lady. 

Godiva.  Will  you  remember  it,  and  pray  against  it? 

Bishop.  Wilt  thou  forget  it,  daughter? 

Godiva.  I  am  not  offended. 

Bishop.  Angel  of  peace  and  purity ! 

Godiva.  But  treasure  it  up  in  your  heart :  deem  it  an 
incense,  good  only  when  it  is  consumed  and  spent, 
95 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

ascending  with  prayer  and  sacrifice.  And  now  what  vas 
it? 

Bishop.  Christ  save  us!  that  he  will  pardon  the  city 
when  thou  ridest  naked  through  the  streets  at  noon. 

Godiva.  Did  he  not  swear  an  oath  ? 

Bishop.  He  sware  by  the  holy  rood. 

Godiva.  My  Redeemer!  Thou  hast  heard  it!  Save 
the  city! 

Leofric.  We  are  now  upon  the  beginning  of  the 
pavement:  these  are  the  suburbs:  let  us  think  of 
feasting ;  we  may  pray  afterward :  to-morrow  we  shall 
rest. 

Godiva.  No  judgments  then  to-morrow,  Leofric? 

Leofric.  None  :  we  will  carouse. 

Godiva.  The  saints  of  heaven  have  given  me  strength 
and  confidence :  my  prayers  are  heard :  the  heart  of 
my  beloved  is  now  softened. 

Leofric  (aside')  .     Ay,  ay — they  shall  smart,  though. 

Godiva.  Say,  dearest  Leofric,  is  there  indeed  no  other 
hope,  no  other  mediation? 

Leofric.  I  have  sworn :  besides,  thou  hast  made  me 
redden  and  turn  my  face  away  from  thee,  and  all  the 
knaves  have  seen  it ;  this  adds  to  the  city's  crime. 

Godiva.  I  have  blushed  too,  Leofric,  and  was  not  rash 
nor  obdurate. 

Leofric.  But  thou,  my  sweetest,  art  given  to  blushing : 
there  is  no  conquering  it  in  thee.  I  wish  thou  hadst  not 
alighted  so  hastily  and  roughly ;  it  hath  shaken  down 
a  sheaf  of  thy  hair ;  take  heed  thou  sit  not  upon  it,  lest 
it  anguish  thee.  Well  done !  it  mingleth  now  sweetly 
with  the  cloth  of  gold  upon  the  saddle,  running  here 
and  there,  as  if  it  had  life  and  faculties  and  business, 
and  were  working  there  upon  some  newer  and  cunninger 
device.  O  my  beauteous  Eve!  there  is  a  Paradise 
96 


The  Heroines 

about  thee!  the  world  is  refreshed  as  thou  movest  and 
breathest  on  it.  I  cannot  see  or  think  of  evil  where 
thou  art.  I  could  throw  my  arms  even  here  about  thee. 
No  signs  for  me  !  no  shaking  of  sunbeams !  no  reproof 
or  frown  or  wonderment  —  I  will  say  it  —  now  then  for 
worse  —  I  could  close  with  my  kisses  thy  half-open  lips, 
ay,  and  those  lovely  and  loving  eyes,  before  the  people. 

Godiva.  To-morrow  you  shall  kiss  me,  and  they  shall 
bless  you  for  it.  I  shall  be  very  pale,  for  to-night  I 
must  fast  and  pray. 

Leofric.  I  do  not  hear  thee ;  the  voices  of  the  folk 
are  so  loud  under  this  archway. 

Godiva  (to  herself).  God  help  them  !  good  kind  souls  ! 
I  hope  they  will  not  crowd  about  me  so  to-morrow. 
O  Leofric !  could  my  name  be  forgotten !  and  yours 
alone  remembered!  But  perhaps  my  innocence  may 
save  me  from  reproach!  and  how  many  innocent  are  in 
fear  and  famine!  No  eye  will  open  on  me  but  fresh  from 
tears.  What  a  young  mother  for  so  large  a  family  ! 
Shall  my  youth  harm  me!  Under  God's  hand  it  gives 
me  courage.  Ah,  when  will  the  morning  come!  ah, 
when  will  the  noon  be  over ! 

W.  S.  Landor 

P.S.  The  story  of  Godiva,  at  one  of  the  festivals  or 
fairs  [at  which]  I  was  present  in  my  boyhood,  has  always 
interested  me ;  and  I  wrote  a  poem  on  it,  sitting,  I  re- 
member, by  the  square  pool  at  Rugby.  When  I  showed 
it  to  a  friend  in  whom  I  had  most  confidence,  he  began  to 
scoff  at  the  subject ;  and  on  his  reaching  the  last  line 
his  laughter  was  loud  and  immoderate. 

This  conversation  has  brought  both  laughter  and 
stanza  back  to  me,  and  the  earnestness  with  which  I 
entreated  and  implored  my  friend  not  to  tell  the  lads', 
H  97 


The  Ladies'    Pageant 

so  heart-strickenly  and  desperately  was  I  ashamed.  The 
verses  are  these,  if  any  one  else  should  wish  another 
laugh  at  me  :  — 

In  every  hour,  in  every  mood, 
O  lady,  it  is  sweet  and  good 

To  bathe  the  soul  in  prayer ; 
And  at  the  close  of  such  a  day, 
When  we  have  ceased  to  bless  and  pray, 

To  dream  on  thy  long  hair. 

May  the  peppermint  be  still  growing  on  the  bank  in 
that  place! 

W.  S.  L. 


Joan  of  Arc  ^^        <^y        ^*        <^>         <o        <^ 

I 

"\  1  7HAT  is  to  be  thought  of  her?  What  is  to  be  thought' 
•  •  of  the  poor  shepherd  girl  from  the  hills  and  forests 
of  Lorraine,  that  —  like  the  Hebrew  shepherd  boy  from  the 
hills  and  forests  of  Judea  —  rose  suddenly  out  of  the 
quiet,  out  of  the  safety,  out  of  the  religious  inspiration, 
rooted  in  deep  pastoral  solitudes,  to  a  station  in  the 
van  of  armies,  and  to  the  more  perilous  station  at  the 
right  hand  of  kings?  The  Hebrew  boy  inaugurated 
his  patriotic  misson  by  an  act,  by  a  victorious  act,  such 
as  no  man  could  deny.  But  so  did  the  girl  of  Lorraine, 
if  we  read  her  story  as  it  was  read  by  those  who  saw 
her  nearest.  Adverse  armies  bore  witness  to  the  boy 
as  no  pretender;  but  so  they  did  to  the  gentle  girl. 
Judged  by  the  voices  of  all  who  saw  them  from  a  station 
of  good-will,  both  were  found  true  and  loyal  to  any 
promises  involved  in  their  first  acts.  Enemies  it  was 
that  made  the  difference  between  their  subsequent 
fortunes.  The  boy  rose  to  a  splendour  and  a  noon-day 


The  Heroines 

prosperity,  both  personal  and  public,  that  rang  through 
the  records  of  his  people,  and  became  a  by-word  amongst 
his  posterity  for  a  thousand  years,  until  the  sceptre 
was  departing  from  Judah.  The  poor,  forsaken  girl,  on 
the  contrary,  drank  not  herself  from  that  cup  of  rest 
which  she  had  secured  for  France.  She  never  sang 
together  with  the  songs  that  rose  in  her  native  Domremy, 
as  echoes  to  the  departing  steps  of  the  invaders.  She 
mingled  not  in  the  festal  dances  at  Vaucouleurs  which 
celebrated  in  rapture  the  redemption  of  France.  No  ! 
for  her  voice  was  then  silent ;  no  !  for  her  feet  were 
dust.  Pure,  innocent,  noble-hearted  girl  !  whom,  from 
earliest  youth,  ever  I  believed  in  as  full  of  truth  and 
self-sacrifice,  this  was  amongst  the  strongest  pledges 
of  thy  truth,  that  never  once  —  no,  not  for  a  moment  of 
weakness  —  didst  thou  revel  in  the  vision  of  coronets 
and  honour  from  man.  Coronets  for  thee  !  Oh  no  ! 
Honours,  if  they  come  when  all  is  over,  are  for  those 
that  share  thy  blood.  Daughter  of  Domre'my,  when  the 
gratitude  of  thy  king  shall  awaken,  thou  wilt  be  sleeping 
the  sleep  of  the  dead.  Call  her,  King  of  France,  but 
she  will  not  hear  thee.  Cite  her  by  the  apparitors  to 
come  and  receive  a  robe  of  honour,  but  she  will  be 
found  en  contumace.  When  the  thunders  of  universal 
France,  as  even  yet  may  happen,  shall  proclaim  the 
grandeur  of  the  poor  shepherd  girl  that  gave  up  all 
for  her  country,  thy  ear,  young  shepherd  girl,  will  have 
been  deaf  for  five  'centuries.  To  suffer  and  to  do,  that 
was  thy  portion  in  this  life ;  that  was  thy  destiny ;  and 
not  for  a  moment  was  it  hidden  from  thyself.  Life,  thou 
saidst,  is  short ;  and  the  sleep  which  is  in  the  grave  is 
long ;  let  me  use  that  life,  so  transitory,  for  the  glory  of 
those  heavenly  dreams  destined  to  comfort  the  sleep 
which  is  so  long  !  This  pure  creature  —  pure  from  every 
99 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

suspicion  of  even  a  visionary  self-interest,  even  as  she 
was  pure  in  senses  more  obvious  —  never  once  did  this 
holy  child,  as  regarded  herself,  relax  from  her  belief  in 
the  darkness  that  was  travelling  to  meet  her.  She  might 
not  prefigure  the  very  manner  of  her  death;  she  saw 
not  in  vision,  the  aerial  altitude  of  the  fiery  scaffold,  the 
spectators  without  end  on  every  road  pouring  into  Rouen 
as  to  a  coronation,  the  surging  smoke,  the  volleying 
flames,  the  hostile  faces  all  around,  the  pitying  eye  that 
lurked  but  there,  until  nature  and  imperishable  truth 
broke  loose  from  artificial  restraints ;  —  these  might  not 
be  apparent  through  the  mists  of  the  hurrying  future. 
But  the  voice  that  called  her  to  death,  that  she  heard 
forever. 

Great  was  the  throne  of  France  even  in  those  days, 
and  great  was  he  that  sat  upon  it:  but  well  Joanna 
knew  that  not  the  throne,  nor  he  that  sat  upon  it,  was 
for  her ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  that  she  was  for  them ; 
not  she  by  them,  but  they  by  her,  should  rise  from  the 
dust.  Gorgeous  were  the  lilies  of  France,  and  for 
centuries  had  the  privilege  to  spread  their  beauty  over 
land  and  sea,  until  in  another  century  the  wrath  of  God 
and  man  combined  to  wither  them ;  but  well  Joanna 
knew,  early  at  Domremy  she  had  read  that  bitter  truth, 
that  the  lilies  of  France  would  decorate  no  garland 
for  her.  Flower  nor  bud,  bell  nor  blossom,  would  ever 
bloom  for  her. 

Thomas  de  Quincey 

II 

THE  honour  of  a  loyal  boy, 
The  courage  of  a  paladin, 
With  maiden's  mirth,  the  soul  of  joy, 
These  dwelt  her  happy  breast  within. 
100 


The  Heroines 

From  shame,  from  doubt,  from  fear,  from  sin, 

As  God's  own  angels  was  she  free ; 
Old  worlds  shall  end,  and  new  begin 
To  be, 

Ere  any  come  like  her  who  fought 

For  France,  for  freedom,  for  the  King ; 

Who  counsel  of  redemption  brought 

Whence  even  the  armed  Archangel's  wing 

Might  weary  sore  in  voyaging ; 
Who  heard  her  Voices  cry  "Be  free!  " 

Such  Maid  no  later  human  spring 
Shall  see! 

Saints  Michael,  Catherine,  Margaret, 

Who  sowed  the  seed  that  Thou  must  reap, 
If  eyes  of  angels  may  be  wet, 

And  if  the  Saints  have  leave  to  weep, 

In  Paradise  one  pain  they  keep, 

Maiden!  one  mortal  memory, 

One  sorrow  that  can  never  sleep 

For  thee! 

Andrew  Lang 

Madame  Roland        -<o        <^x        'Qy        -Qy        *s» 

I 

AMONG  whom,  courting  no  notice,  and  yet  the 
notablest  of  all,  what  queen-like  Figure  is  this ; 
with  her  escort  of  house-friends  and  Champagneux  the 
Patriot  Editor ;  come  abroad  with  the  earliest?  Radiant 
with  enthusiasm  are  those  dark  eyes,  is  that  strong 
Minerva-face,  looking  dignity  and  earnest  joy;  joyfulest 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

she  where  all  are  joyful.  It  is  Roland  de  la  Platriere's 
Wife!  Strict  elderly  Roland,  King's  Inspector  of  Manu- 
factures here ;  and  now  likewise,  by  popular  choice,  the 
strictest  of  our  new  Lyons  Municipals :  a  man  who  has 
gained  much,  if  worth  and  faculty  be  gain ;  but,  above 
all  things,  has  gained  to  wife  Phlipon  the  Paris  Engraver's 
daughter.  Reader,  mark  that  queenlike  burgher-woman : 
beautiful,  Amazonian-graceful  to  the  eye ;  more  so  to 
the  mind.  Unconscious  of  her  worth  (as  all  worth  is), 
of  her  greatness,  of  her  crystal  clearness ;  genuine,  the 
creature  of  Sincerity  and  Nature,  in  an  age  of  Artifici- 
ality, Pollution  and  Cant ;  there,  in  her  still  complete- 
ness, in  her  still  invincibility,  she,  if  thou  knew  it,  is  the 
noblest  of  all  living  Frenchwomen,  —  and  will  be  seen, 
one  day.  O,  blessed  rather  while  unseen,  even  of 
herself !  For  the  present  she  gazes,  nothing  doubting, 
into  this  grand  theatricality ;  and  thinks  her  young 
dreams  are  to  be  fulfilled. 


II 

AFAR  nobler  Victim  follows ;  one  who  will  claim 
remembrance  from  several  centuries :  Jeanne-Marie 
Phlipon,  the  Wife  of  Roland.  Queenly,  sublime  in  her 
uncomplaining  sorrow,  seemed  she  to  Riouffe  in  her 
Prison.  "  Something  more  than  is  usually  found  in  the 
looks  of  women  painted  itself,"  says  Riouffe,  "  in  those 
large  black  eyes  of  hers,  full  of  expression  and  sweetness. 
She  spoke  to  me  often,  at  the  Grate :  we  were  all  at- 
tentive round  her,  in  a  sort  of  admiration  and  astonish- 
ment ;  she  expressed  herself  with  a  purity,  with  a 
harmony  and  prosody  that  made  her  language  like 
music,  of  which  the  ear  could  never  have  enough.  Her 
conversation  was  serious,  not  cold ;  coming  from  the 

102 


The  Heroines 

mouth  of  a  beautiful  woman,  it  was  frank  and  courageous 
as  that  of  a  great  man.  And  yet  her  maid  said  :  '  Before 
you,  she  collects  her  strength ;  but  in  her  own  room, 
she  will  sit  three  hours  sometimes  leaning  on  the  window, 
and  weeping.' "  She  has  been  in  Prison,  liberated  once, 
but  recaptured  the  same  hour,  ever  since  the  first  of 
June :  in  agitation  and  uncertainty ;  which  has  gradually 
settled  down  into  the  last  stern  certainty,  that  of  death. 
In  the  Abbaye  Prison,  she  occupied  Charlotte  Corday's 
apartment.  Here  in  the  Conciergerie,  she  speaks  with 
RioufFe,  with  Ex-Minister  Claviere;  calls  the  beheaded 
Twenty-two  "  Nos  amis,  our  Friends,"  —  whom  we  are 
soon  to  follow.  During  these  five  months,  those  Memoirs 
of  hers  were  written,  which  all  the  world  still  reads. 

But  now,  on  the  8th  of  November,  "  clad  in  white," 
says  RioufFe,  "with  her  long  black  hair  hanging  down 
to  her  girdle,"  she  is  gone  to  the  Judgment-bar.  She 
returned  with  a  quick  step ;  lifted  her  finger,  to  signify 
to  us  that  she  was  doomed :  her  eyes  seemed  to  have 
been  wet.  Fouquier-Tinville's  questions  had  been 
"  brutal ;  "  offended  female  honour  flung  them  back  on 
him,  with  scorn,  not  without  tears.  And  now,  short 
preparation  soon  done,  she  too  shall  go  her  last  road. 
There  went  with  her  a  certain  Lamarche,  "  Director  of 
Assignat-printing ; "  whose  dejection  she  endeavoured 
to  cheer.  Arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold,  she  asked 
for  pen  and  paper,  "  to  write  the  strange  thoughts  that 
were  rising  in  her : "  a  remarkable  request ;  which  was 
refused.  Looking  at  the  Statue  of  Liberty  which  stands 
there,  she  says  bitterly :  "  O  Liberty,  what  things  are 
done  in  thy  name  ! "  For  Lamarche's  sake,  she  will  die 
first ;  show  him  how  easy  it  is  to  die :  "  Contrary  to  the 
order,"  said  Samson.  —  "Pshaw,  you -cannot  refuse  the 
last  request  of  a  Lady ;  "  and  Samson  yielded. 
103 


The  Ladies'  Pageant 

Noble  white  Vision,  with  its  high  queenly  face,  its  soft 
proud  eyes,  long  black  hair  flowing  down  to  the  girdle ; 
and  as  brave  a  heart  as  ever  beat  in  woman's  bosom  ! 
Like  a  white  Grecian  Statue,  serenely  complete,  she 
shines  in  that  black  wreck  of  things  ;  —  long  memorable. 
Honour  to  great  Nature  who,  in  Paris  City,  in  the  Era 
of  Noble-Sentiment  and  Pompadourism,  can  make  a 
Jeanne  Phlipon,  and  nourish  her  to  clear  perennial 
Womanhood,  though  but  on  Logics,  Encyclopedies,  and 
the  Gospel  according  to  Jean-Jacques  !  Biography  will 
long  remember  that  trait  of  asking  for  a  pen  "  to  write 
the  strange  thoughts  that  were  rising  in  her."  It  is  as 
a  little  light-beam,  shedding  softness,  and  a  kind  of 
sacredness,  over  all  that  preceded :  so  in  her  too  there 
was  an  Unnameable ;  she  too  was  a  Daughter  of  the 
Infinite ;  there  were  mysteries  which  Philosophism  had 
not  dreamt  of !  —  She  left  long  written  counsels  to  her 
little  Girl ;  she  said  her  Husband  would  not  survive  her. 

Thomas  Carlyle 

III 

WHEN  she  whose  glory  casts  in  shade 
France  and  her  best  and  bravest,  was  convey'd 
Thither  where  all  worth  praise  had  bled, 
An  aged  man  in  the  same  car  was  led 
To  the  same  end.     The  only  way, 
Roland  !  to  soothe  his  fear  didst  thou  essay. 
"  O  Sir  !  indeed  you  must  not  see 
The  blood  that  is  about  to  flow  from  me. 
Mount  first  these  steps  —  a  mother  torn 
From  her  one  child  worse  pangs  each  day  hath  borne." 
He  trembled  ...  but  obey'd  the  word  .  .  . 
Then  sprang  she  up  and  met  the  reeking  sword. 

W.  S.  Landor 
104 


The  Heroines 

Charlotte  Corday       ^        ^>         ^>        *o        <^ 

I 

AMID  which  dim  ferment  of  Caen  and  the  World, 
History  specially  notices  one  thing :  in  the  lobby 
of  the  Mansion  de  Plntendance,  where  busy  Deputies  are 
coming  and  going,  a  young  Lady  with  an  aged  valet, 
taking  grave  graceful  leave  of  Deputy  Barbaroux.  She 
is  of  stately  Norman  figure ;  in  her  twenty-fifth  year ; 
of  beautiful  still  countenance :  her  name  is  Charlotte 
Corday,  heretofore  styled  D'Armans,  while  Nobility  still 
was.  Barbaroux  has  given  her  a  Note  to  Deputy 
Duperret,  —  him  who  once  drew  his  sword  in  the 
effervescence.  Apparently  she  will  to  Paris  on  some 
errand  ?  "  She  was  a  Republican  before  the  Revolution, 
and  never  wanted  energy."  A  completeness,  a  decision 
is  in  this  fair  female  Figure :  "  by  energy  she  means  the 
spirit  that  will  prompt  one  to  sacrifice  himself  for  his 
country."  What  if  she,  this  fair  young  Charlotte,  had 
emerged  from  her  secluded  stillness,  suddenly  like  a 
Star;  cruel-lovely,  with  half-angelic,  half-daemonic 
splendour;  to  gleam  for  a  moment,  and  in  a  moment 
be  extinguished :  to  be  held  in  memory,  so  bright 
complete  was  she,  through  long  centuries!  —  Quitting 
Cimmerian  Coalitions  without,  and  the  dim-simmering 
Twenty-five  millions  within,  History  will  look  fixedly 
at  this  one  fair  Apparition  of  a  Charlotte  Corday ;  will 
note  whither  Charlotte  moves,  how  the  little  Life  burns 
forth  so  radiant,  then  vanishes  swallowed  of  the  Night. 

With  Barbaroux's  Note  of  Introduction,  and  slight 
stock  of  luggage,  we  see  Charlotte  on  Tuesday  the  gth 
of  July  seated  in  the  Caen  Diligence,  with  a  place  for 
Paris.  None  takes  farewell  of  her,  wishes  her  Good- 
journey  :  her  Father  will  find  a  line  left,  signifying  that 
105 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

she  is  gone  to  England,  that  he  must  pardon  her,  and 
forget  her.  The  drowsy  Diligence  lumbers  along ;  amid 
drowsy  talk  of  Politics,  and  praise  of  the  Mountain ;  in 
which  she  mingles  not :  all  night,  all  day,  and  again 
all  night.  On  Thursday,  not  long  before  noon,  we  are 
at  the  bridge  of  Neuilly ;  here  is  Paris  with  her  thousand 
black  domes,  the  goal  and  purpose  of  thy  journey  ! 
Arrived  at  the  Inn  de  la  Providence  in  the  Rue  des 
Vieux  Augustins,  Charlotte  demands  a  room ;  hastens 
to  bed;  sleeps  all  afternoon  and  night,  till  the  morrow 
morning. 

On  the  morrow  morning,  she  delivers  her  Note  to 
Duperret.  It  relates  to  certain  Family  Papers  which 
are  in  the  Minister  of  the  Interior's  hands  ;  which  a  Nun 
at  Caen,  an  old  Convent-friend  of  Charlotte's,  has  need 
of;  which  Uuperret  shall  assist  her  in  getting:  this  then 
was  Charlotte's  errand  to  Paris?  She  has  finished  this, 
in  the  course  of  Friday ;  —  yet  says  nothing  of  returning. 
She  has  seen  and  silently  investigated  several  things. 
The  Convention,  in  bodily  reality,  she  has  seen ;  what 
the  Mountain  is  like.  The  living  physiognomy  of  Marat 
she  could  not  see ;  he  is  sick  at  present,  and  confined  to 
home. 

About  eight  on  the  Saturday  morning,  she  purchases 
a  large  sheath-knife  in  the  Palais  Royal ;  then  straight- 
way, in  the  Place  des  Victoires,  takes  a  hackney-coach  : 
"To  the  Rue  de  TEcole  de  Me"decine,  No.  44."  It  is 
the  residence  of  the  Citoyen  Marat!  —  The  Citoyen 
Marat  is  ill,  and  cannot  be  seen ;  which  seems  to 
disappoint  her  much.  Her  business  is  with  Marat, 
then  ?  Hapless  beautiful  Charlotte ;  hapless  squalid 
Marat!  From  Caen  in  the  utmost  West,  from 
Neuchatel  in  the  utmost  East,  they  two  are  drawing 
nigh  each  other ;  they  two  have,  very  strangely,  business 
1 06 


The  Heroines 

together. — Charlotte,  returning  to  her  Inn,  despatches 
a  short  Note  to  Marat ;  signifying  that  she  is  from 
Caen,  the  seat  of  rebellion  ;  that  she  desires  earnestly 
to  see  him,  and  "  will  put  it  in  his  power  to  do  France 
a  great  service."  No  answer.  Charlotte  writes  another 
Note,  still  more  pressing;  sets  out  with  it  by  coach, 
about  seven  in  the  evening,  herself.  Tired  day-labourers 
have  again  finished  their  Week ;  huge  Paris  is  circling 
and  simmering,  manifold,  according  to  its  vague  wont : 
this  one  fair  Figure  has  decision  in  it ;  drives  straight,  — 
towards  a  purpose. 

It  is  yellow  July  evening,  we  say,  the  thirteenth  of  the 
month ;  eve  of  the  Bastille  day,  —  when  "  M.  Marat," 
four  years  ago,  in  the  crowd  of  the  Pont  Neuf,  shrewdly 
required  of  that  Besenval  Hussar-party,  which  had  such 
friendly  dispositions,  "  to  dismount,  and  give  up  their 
arms,  then ; "  and  became  notable  among  Patriot  men. 
Four  years :  what  a  road  he  has  travelled ;  —  and  sits 
now,  about  half-past  seven  of  the  clock,  stewing  in 
slipper-bath ;  sore  afflicted ;  ill  of  Revolution  Fever,  — 
of  what  other  malady  this- History  had  rather  not  name. 
Excessively  sick  and  worn,  poor  man :  with  precisely 
elevenpence-halfpenny  of  ready-money,  in  paper;  with 
slipper-bath ;  strong  three-footed  stool  for  writing  on, 
the  while;  and  a  squalid  —  Washerwoman,  one  may  call 
her:  that  is  his  civic  establishment  in  Medical-School 
Street;  thither  and  not  elsewhither  has  his  road  led  him. 
Not  to  the  reign  of  Brotherhood  and  Perfect  Felicity ; 
yet  surely  on  the  way  towards  that?  —  Hark,  a  rap  again! 
A  musical  woman's  voice,  refusing  to  be  rejected :  it  is 
the  Citoyenne  who  would  do  F ranee  a  service.  Marat, 
recognising  from  within,  cries,  Admit  her.  Charlotte 
Corday  is  admitted. 

Citoyen  Marat,  I  am  from  Caen,  the  seat  of  rebellion, 
107 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

and  wished  to  speak  with  you.  —  Be  seated,  man  enfant. 
Now  what  are  the  Traitors  doing  at  Caen  ?  What 
Deputies  are  at  Caen?  —  Charlotte  names  some  Deputies. 
"  Their  heads  shall  fall  within  a  fortnight,"  croaks  the 
eager  People's-friend,  clutching  his  tablets  to  write : 
Barbaroux,  Petion,  writes  he  with  bare  shrunk  arm, 
turning  aside  in  the  bath :  Pt>tion,  and  Louvet,  and  — 
Charlotte  has  drawn  her  knife  from  the  sheath ;  plunges 
it,  with  one  sure  stroke,  into  the  writer's  heart.  "  A  mot, 
chlre  amie,  Help,  dear ! "  no  more  could  the  Death- 
choked  say  or  shriek.  The  helpful  Washerwoman 
running  in,  there  is  no  Friend  of  the  People,  or  Friend 
of  the  Washerwoman  left ;  but  his  life  with  a  groan 
gushes  out,  indignant,  to  the  shades  below.  .  .  . 

As  for  Charlotte  Corday,  her  work  is  accomplished ; 
the  recompense  of  it  is  near  and  sure.  The  chere 
amie,  and  neighbours  of  the  house,  flying  at  her,  she 
"  overturns  some  movables,"  entrenches  herself  till 
the  gendarmes  arrive ;  then  quietly  surrenders ;  goes 
quietly  to  the  Abbaye  Prison :  she  alone  quiet,  all  Paris 
sounding,  in  wonder,  in  rage  or  admiration,  round  her. 
Duperret  is  put  in  arrest,  on  account  of  her ;  his  Papers 
sealed,  —  which  may  lead  to  consequences.  Fauchet, 
in  like  manner;  though  Fauchet  had  not  so  much  as 
heard  of  her.  Charlotte,  confronted  with  these  two 
Deputies,  praises  the  grave  firmness  of  Duperret,  cen- 
sures the  dejection  of  Fauchet. 

On  Wednesday  morning,  the  thronged  Palais  de 
Justice  and  Revolutionary  Tribunal  can  see  her  face; 
beautiful  and  calm :  she  dates  it  "  fourth  day  of  the 
Preparation  of  Peace."  A  strange  murmur  ran  through 
the  Hall,  at  sight  of  her;  you  could  not  say  of  what 
character.  Tinville  has  his  indictments  and  tape-papers  : 
the  cutler  of  the  Palais  Royal  will  testify  that  he  sold 
108 


The  Heroines 

her  the  sheath-knife;  "All  these  details  are  needless," 
interrupted  Charlotte;  "it  is  I  that  killed  Marat."  By 
whose  instigation?  —  "  By  no  one's."  What  tempted  you. 
then?  His  crimes.  "I  killed  one  man,"  added  she, 
raising  her  voice  extremely  (extrtmemenf),  as  they  went 
on  with  their  questions,  "  I  killed  one  man  to  save  a 
hundred  thousand ;  a  villain  to  save  innocents ;  a  savage 
wild-beast  to  give  repose  to  my  country.  I  was  a 
Republican  before  the  Revolution;  I  never  wanted 
energy."  There  is  therefore  nothing  to  be  said.  The 
public  gazes  astonished:  the  hasty  limners  sketch  her 
features,  Charlotte  not  disapproving:  the  men  of  law 
proceed  with  their  formalities.  The  doom  is  Death  as 
a  murderess.  To  her  Advocate  she  gives  thanks ;  in 
gentle  phrase,  in  high-flown  classical  spirit.  To  the 
Priest  they  send  her  she  gives  thanks;  but  needs  not 
any  shriving,  any  ghostly  or  other  aid  from  him. 

On  this  same  evening,  therefore,  about  half-past  seven 
o'clock,  from  the  gate  of  the  Conciergerie  to  a  City  all 
on  tiptoe,  the  fatal  Cart  issues ;  seated  on  it  a  fair  young 
creature,  sheeted  in  red  smock  of  Murderess  ;  so 
beautiful,  serene,  so  full  of  life ;  journeying  towards 
death,  —  alone  amid  the  World.  Many  take  off  their 
hats,  saluting  reverently;  for  what  heart  but  must  be 
touched?  Others  growl  and  howl.  Adam  Lux,  of 
Mentz,  declares  that  she  is  greater  than  Brutus;  that 
it  were  beautiful  to  die  with  her :  the  head  of  this  young 
man  seems  turned.  At  the  Place  de  la  Revolution,  the 
countenance  of  Charlotte  wears  the  same  still  smile. 
The  executioners  proceed  to  bind  her  feet;  she  resists, 
thinking  it  meant  as  an  insult ;  on  a  word  of  explanation, 
she  submits  with  cheerful  apology.  As  the  last  act,  all 
being  now  ready,  they  take  the  neckerchief  from  her 
neck ;  a  blush  of  maidenly  shame  overspreads  that  fair 
109 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 


face  and  neck ;  the  cheeks  were  still  tinged  with  it  when 
the  executioner  lifted  the  severed  head,  to  show  it  to 
the  people.  "  It  is  most  true,"  says  Forster,  "  that  he 
struck  the  cheek  insultingly ;  for  I  saw  it  with  my  eyes : 
the  Police  imprisoned  him  for  it." 

Thomas  Carlyle 

II 

HEARTS  must  not  sink  at  seeing  Law  lie  dead ; 
No,  Corday,  no  ; 

Else  Justice  had  not  crown'd  in  heaven  thy  head 
Profaned  below. 

Three  women  France  hath  borne,  each  greater  far 

Than  all  her  men. 
And  greater  many  were  than  any  are 

At  sword  or  pen  — 

Corneille,  the  first  among  Gaul's  rhymer  race 

Whose  soul  was  free, 
Descends  from  his  high  station,  proud  to  trace 

His  line  in  thee. 

W.  S.  Landor 


W 


Florence  Nightingale      'Qy       "vix       -Os-       ^> 
I 

HENE'ER  a  noble  deed  is  wrought, 

Whene'er  is  spoken  a  noble  thought, 
Our  hearts  in  glad  surprise 
To  higher  levels  rise. 

The  tidal  wave  of  deeper  souls 
Into  our  inmost  being  rolls, 
And  lifts  us  unawares 
Out  of  all  meaner  cares. 
no 


The  Heroines 

Honour  to  those  whose  words  or  deeds 
Thus  help  us  in  our  daily  needs. 
And  by  their  overflow 
.liaise  us  from  what  is  low  ! 

Thus  thought  I,  as  by  night  I  read 
Of  the  great  army  of  the  dead, 
The  trenches  cold  and  damp, 
The  starved  and  frozen  camp  — 

The  wounded  from  the  battle  plain, 
In  dreary  hospitals  of  pain, 
The  cheerless  corridors, 
The  cold  and  stony  floors. 

Lo  !  in  that  house  of  misery 

A  lady  with  a  lamp  I  see 

Pass  through  the  glimmering  gloom, 

And  flit  from  room  to  room. 

And  slow,  as  in  a  dream  of  bliss, 
The  speechless  sufferer  turns  to  kiss 
Her  shadow,  as  it  falls 
Upon  the  darkening  walls. 

As  if  a  door  in  heaven  should  be 
Opened,  and  then  closed  suddenly, 
The  vision  came  and  went  : 
The  light  shone,  and  was  spent. 

On  England's  annals  through  the  long 
Hereafter  of  her  speech  and  song, 
That  light  its  rays  shall  cast 
From  portals  of  the  past. 


The  Ladies'  Pageant 


A  Lady  with  a  Lamp  shall  stand 
In  the  great  history  of  the  land, 
A  noble  type  of  good, 
Heroic  womanhood. 

Nor  even  shall  be  wanting  here 
The  palm,  the  lily,  and  the  spear, 
The  symbols  that  of  yore 
Saint  Filomena  bore. 

H.  W.  Longfellow 

II 

"  OHE   was   a  grand  lady   to    us    soldiers,   a  regular 
^   mother,  so  kind,  so  gentle,  and  we  often  wondered 
if  she  ever  went  to  sleep,  because  she  was  always  at  work 
among  the  sick,  day  and  night." 

Robert  Holden  (a  Crimean  veteran) 


SHAKESPEARE'S   WOMEN 

From  women's  eyes  this  doctrine  I  derive : 
They  sparkle  still  the  right  Promethean  fire ; 
They  are  the  books,  the  arts,  the  academics, 
That  show,  contain,  and  nourish  all  the  world : 
Else,  none  at  all  in  aught  proves  excellent. 

Love's  Labour's  Lost 

Shakespeare's  Women      *o      <^      <^      <^>      *o 

NOTE  broadly  in  the  outset  Shakespeare  has  no 
heroes  ;  — he  has  only  heroines.  There  is  not  one 
entirely  heroic  figure  in  all  his  plays,  except  the  slight 
sketch  of  Henry  the  Fifth,  exaggerated  for  the  purposes 
of  the  stage;  and  the  still  slighter  Valentine  in  The 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona.  In  his  laboured  and  perfect 
plays  you  have  no  hero.  Othello  would  have  been  one, 
if  his  simplicity  had  not  been  so  great  as  to  leave  him 
the  prey  of  every  base  practice  round  him ;  but  he  is 
the  only  example  even  approximating  to  the  heroic  type. 
Coriolanus  —  Caesar  —  Antony,  stand  in  flawed  strength, 
and  fall  by  their  vanities ;  —  Hamlet  is  indolent,  and 
drowsily  speculative ;  Romeo  an  impatient  boy ;  the 
Merchant  of  Venice  languidly  submissive  to  adverse 
fortune  ;  Kent,  in  King  Lear,  is  entirely  noble  at  heart, 
but  too  rough  and  unpolished  to  be  of  true  use  at  the 
i  113 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

critical  time,  and  he  sinks  into  the  office  of  a  servant 
only.  Orlando,  no  less  noble,  is  yet  the  despairing  toy 
of  chance,  followed,  comforted,  saved,  by  Rosalind. 
Whereas  there  is  hardly  a  play  that  has  not  a  perfect 
woman  in  it,  steadfast  in  grave  hope  and  errorless 
purpose :  Cordelia,  Desdemona,  Isabella,  Hermione, 
Imogen,  Queen  Katherine,  Perdita,  Sylvia,  Viola,  Rosa- 
lind, Helena,  and  last,  and  perhaps  loveliest,  Virgilia, 
are  all  faultless;  conceived  in  the  highest  heroic  type 
of  humanity. 

Then  observe,  secondly, 

The  catastrophe  of  every  play  is  caused  always  by  the 
folly  or  fault  of  a  man ;  the  redemption,  if  there  be  any, 
is  by  the  wisdom  and  virtue  of  a  woman,  and,  failing  that, 
there  is  none.  The  catastrophe  of  King  Lear  is  owing  to 
his  own  want  of  judgment,  his  impatient  vanity,  his  mis- 
understanding of  his  children ;  the  virtue  of  his  one  true 
daughter  would  have  saved  him  from  all  the  injuries  of 
the  others,  unless  he  had  cast  her  away  from  him ;  as  it  is, 
she  all  but  saves  him. 

Of  Othello  I  need  not  trace  the  tale ;  —  nor  the  one 
weakness  of  his  so  mighty  love ;  nor  the  inferiority  of  his 
perceptive  intellect  to  that  even  of  the  second  woman 
character  in  the  play,  the  Emilia  who  dies  in  wild  testi- 
mony against  his  error:  — "Oh.  murderous  coxcomb! 
What  should  such  a  fool  Do  with  so  good  a  wife  ? " 

In  Romeo  and  Juliet,  the  wise  and  entirely  brave 
stratagem  of  the  wife  is  brought  to  ruinous  issue  by  the 
reckless  impatience  of  her  husband.  In  Winter's  Tale, 
and  in  Cymbeline,  the  happiness  and  existence  of  two 
princely  households,  lost  through  long  years,  and  imperilled 
to  the  death  by  the  folly  and  obstinacy  of  the  husbands, 
are  redeemed  at  last  by  the  queenly  patience  and  wisdom 
of  the  wives.  In  Measure  for  Measure,  the  injustice  of 
114 


Shakespeare's  Women 

the  judges,  and  the  corrupt  cowardice  of  the  brother,  are 
opposed  to  the  victorious  truth  and  adamantine  purity  of 
a  woman.  In  Coriolamts,  the  mother's  counsel,  acted 
upon  in  time,  would  have  saved  her  son  from  all  evil ; 
his  momentary  forgetfulness  of  it  is  his  ruin;  her  prayer, 
at  last  granted,  saves  him  —  not,  indeed,  from  death, 
but  from  the  curse  of  living  as  the  destroyer  of  his 
country. 

And  what  shall  I  say  of  Julia,  constant  against  the 
fickleness  of  a  lover  who  is  a  mere  wicked  child  ? — of 
Helena,  against  the  petulance  and  insult  of  a  careless 
youth?  —  of  the  patience  of  Hero,  the  passion  of  Beatrice, 
and  the  calmly  devoted  wisdom  of  the  "  unlessoned  girl," 
who  appears  among  the  helplessness,  the  blindness,  and 
the  vindictive  passions  of  men,  as  a  gentle  angel,  to  save 
merely  by  her  presence,  and  defeat  the  worst  intensities 
of  crime  by  her  smile  ? 

Observe,  further,  among  all  the  principal  figures  in 
Shakespeare's  plays,  there  is  only  one  weak  woman  — 
Ophelia ;  and  it  is  because  she  fails  Hamlet  at  the  critical 
moment,  and  is  not,  and  cannot  in  her  nature  be,  a  guide 
to  him  when  he  needs  her  most,  that  all  the  bitter  catas- 
trophe follows.  Finally,  though  there  are  three  wicked 
women  among  the  principal  figures,  Lady  Macbeth,  Regan, 
and  Goneril,  they  are  felt  at  once  to  be  frightful  exceptions 
to  the  ordinary  laws  of  life;  fatal  in  their  influence  also 
in  proportion  to  the  power  for  good  which  they  have 
abandoned. 

Such,  in  broad  light,  is  Shakespeare's  testimony  to  the 
position  and  character  of  women  in  human  life.  He  rep- 
resents them  as  infallibly  faithful  and  wise  counsellors,  — 
incorruptibly  just  and  pure  examples  —  strong  always  to 
sanctify,  even  when  they  cannot  save. 

John  Ruskin 
"5 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

Perdita       <o      <i*      x^       ^>       *o       <^>       <^ 

I 

THIS  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass  that  ever 
Ran  on  the  green-sword  :  nothing  she  does  or  seems 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself; 
Too  noble  for  this  place. 

Camilla.  He  tells  her  something 

That  makes  her  blood  look  out.     Good  soothe,  she  is 
The  queen  of  curds  and  cream. 

II 

Gentleman.  This  is  a  creature, 

Would  she  begin  a  sect,  might  quench  the  zeal 
Of  all  professors  else,  make  proselytes 
Of  whom  she  but  bid  follow. 

Paulina.  How  !  not  women? 

Gentleman.     Women  will  love  her,  that  she  is  a  woman 
More  worth  than  any  man ;  men,  that  she  is 
The  rarest  of  all  women. 


Juliet  and  her  Nurse  ^y         "^         -cy         <^x 

T  ADY  CAPULET.     Nurse,  where's  my  daughter? 

J-^ *     call  her  forth  to  me. 

Nurse.     Now,  by  my  maidenhead,  at  twelve  year  old, — 
I  bade  her  come.     What,  lamb !  what,  lady-bird ! 
God  forbid!  where's  this  girl?  what,  Juliet! 

Enter  JULIET 

Juliet.     How  now!  who  calls? 
Nurse.     Your  mother. 

116 


Shakespeare's  Women 

Jtdiet.  Madam,  I  am  here. 

What  is  your  will  ? 

Lady  Cap.   This    is  the    matter.     Nurse,    give    leave 

awhile. 

We  must  talk  in  secret :  nurse,  come  back  again  ; 
I  have  remember' d  me,  thou's  hear  our  counsel. 
Thou  know'st  my  daughter's  of  a  pretty  age. 

Nurse.   Faith,  I  can  tell  her  age  unto  an  hour. 

Lady  Cap.    She's  not  fourteen. 

Nurse.  I'll  lay  fourteen  of  my  teeth  — 

And  yet  to  my  teen  be  it  spoken  I  have  but  four  — 
She  is  not  fourteen.     How  long  is  it  now 
To  Lammas-tide  ? 

Lady  Cap.  A  fortnight  and  odd  days. 

Nurse.   Even  or  odd,  of  all  days  in  the  year, 
Come  Lammas-eve  at  night  shall  she  be  fourteen. 
Susan  and  she  —  God  rest  all  Christian  souls  !  — 
Were  of  an  age.     Well,  Susan  is  with  God ; 
She  was  too  good  for  me.     But,  as  I  said, 
On  Lammas-eve  at  night  shall  she  be  fourteen  ; 
That  shall  she,  marry ;  I  remember  it  well. 
'Tis  since  the  earthquake  now  eleven  years  ; 
And  she  was  wean'd,  I  never  shall  forget  it, 
Of  all  the  days  of  the  year,  upon  that  day ; 
For  I  had  then  laid  wormwood  to  my  dug, 
Sitting  in  the  sun  under  the  dove-house  wall; 
My  lord  and  you  were  then  at  Mantua. 
Nay,  I  do  bear  a  brain :  —  but,  as  I  said, 
When  it  did  taste  the  wormwood  on  the  nipple 
Of  my  dug  and  felt  it  bitter,  pretty  fool ! 
To  see  it  tetchy  and  fall  out  with  the  dug. 
''Shake,"    quoth     the    dove-house:     'twas    no    need,    I 

trow, 
To  bid  me  trudge : 

117 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 


And  since  that  time  it  is  eleven  years ; 

For    then    she    could    stand    high   lone;     nay,    by    the 

rood, 

She  could  have  run  and  waddled  all  about ; 
For  even  the  day  before  she  broke  her  brow  : 
And  then  my  husband  —  God  be  with  his  soul ! 
A'  was  a  merry  man  —  took  up  the  child : 
"  Yea,"  quoth  he,  "dost  thou  fall  upon  thy  face  ? 
Thou  wilt  fall  backward  when  thou  hast  more  wit ; 
Wilt  thou  not,  Jule?  "  and,  by  my  halidom, 
The  pretty  wretch  left  crying,  and  said  "  Ay." 
To  see  now  how  a  jest  shall  come  about ! 
I  warrant,  an  I  should  live  a  thousand  years, 
I  never  should  forget  it :  "  Wilt  thou  not,  Jule  ? "  quoth 

he; 
And,  pretty  fool,  it  stinted  and  said  "  Ay." 

Lady  Cap.    Enough    of  this ;     I   pray  thee,   hold    thy 

peace. 
Nurse.    Yes,    madam.      Yet     I    cannot     choose     but 

laugh, 

To  think  it  should  leave  crying,  and  say  "  Ay." 
And  yet,  I  warrant,  it  had  upon  its  brow 
A  bump  as  big  as  a  young  cockerel's  stone  ; 
A  parlous  knock ;  and  it  cried  bitterly : 
"  Yea,1'  quoth  my  husband,  "  fall'st  upon  thy  face  ? 
Thou  wilt  fall  backward  when  thou  com'st  to  age ; 
Wilt  thou  not,  Jule  ?  "  it  stinted  and  said  "  Ay." 
Jul.   And  stint  thou  too,  I  pray  thee.  nurse,  say  I. 
Nurse.    Peace,  I    have   done.     God  .mark  thee   to  his 

grace! 

Thou  wast  the  prettiest  babe  that  e'er  I  nursed : 
An  I  might  live  to  see  thee  married  once, 
I  have  my  wish. 


118 


Shakespeare's  Women 

Juliet's  Nurse       ^>       ^Qy       ^^       o       ^>       ^ 

IN  old-world  nursery  vacant  now  of  children, 
With  posied  walls,  familiar,  fair,  demure, 
And  facing  southward  o'er  romantic  streets, 
Sits  yet  and  gossips  winter's  dark  away 
One  gloomy,  vast,  glossy,  and  wise,  and  sly  : 
And  at  her  side  a  cherried  country  cousin  — 
Her  tongue  claps  ever  like  a  ram's  sweet  bell ; 
There's  not  a  name  but  calls  a  tale  to  mind  — 
Some  marrowy  patty  of  farce  or  melodram  ; 
There's  not  a  soldier  but  hath  babes  in  view ; 
There's  not  on  earth  what  minds  not  of  the  midwife : 
"  O,  widowhood  that  left  me  still  espoused ! " 
Beauty  she  sighs  o'er,  and  she  sighs  o'er  gold ; 
Gold  will  buy  all  things,  even  a  sweet  husband, 
Else  only  Heav'n  is  left  and  —  farewell  youth! 
Yet,  strangely,  in  that  money-haunted  head, 
The  sad,  gemm'd  crucifix  and  incense  blue 
Is  childhood  come  again.     Her  memory 
Is  like  an  ant-hill  which  a  twig  disturbs, 
But  twig  stilled  never.     And  to  see  her  face, 
Broad  with  sleek  homely  beams ;  her  babied  hands, 
Even  like  'lighting  doves,  and  her  small  eyes  — 
Blue  wells  a-twinkle,  arch  and  lewd  and  pious  — 
To  dark'n  all  sudden  into  Stygian  gloom, 
And  pant  disaster  with  uplifted  whites, 
Is  life's  epitome.     She  prates  and  prates  — 
A  waterbrook  of  words  o'er  twelve  small  pebbles. 
And  when  she  dies  —  some  grey,  long,  summer  evening, 
When  the  bird  shouts  of  childhood  thro'  the  dusk, 
'Neath  night's  faint  tapers,  —  then  her  body  shall 
Lie  stiff  with  silks  of  sixty  thrifty  years. 

Walter  De  la  Mare 
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Marina          -^y        -<^>.        -<ci>-         *^y        ^>        <c^y 

THIRST  LORD.  Sir, 

J-       We  have  a  maid  in  Mitylene,  I  durst  wager, 
Would  win  some  words  of  him. 

Lysitnachus.  ?Tis  well  bethought. 

She  questionless  with  her  sweet  harmony 
And  other  chosen  attractions,  would  allure, 
And  make  a  battery  through  his  deafen'd  ports 
Which  now  are  midway  stopp'd  : 
She  is  all  happy  as  the  fair'st  of  all, 
And  with  her  fellow  maids  is  now  upon 
'  The  leafy  shelter  that  abuts  against 
The  island's  side. 


Sylvia    ^>        -Qy       o        <^        <^        -^*        ^ 

/  7  ALENTINE.  And  why  not  death  rather  than  living 

r         torment? 

To  die  is  to  be  banished  from  myself; 
And  Sylvia  is  myself :  banish'd  from  her 
Is  self  from  self,  —  a  deadly  banishment ! 
What  light  is  light,  if  Sylvia  be  not  seen  ? 
What  joy  is  joy,  if  Sylvia  be  not  by? 
Unless  it  be  to  think  that  she  is  by 
And  feed  upon  the  shadow  of  perfection. 
Except  I  be  by  Sylvia  in  the  night, 
There  is  no  music  in  the  nightingale ; 
Unless  I  look  on  Sylvia  in  the  day, 
There  te  no  day  for  me  to  look  upon. 
She  is  my  essence. 

1 20 


Shakespeare's  Women 

Lady  Percy        ^>       x:o       ^^        *o        ^x       *c> 

T  ADY PERCY.  But  hear  you,  my  lord. 
JL~*  Hotspur.  What  sayst  thou,  my  lady? 

Lady  P.  What  is  it  carries  you  away  ? 

Hot.  Why,  my  horse,  my  love,  my  horse. 

Lady  P.  Out,  you  mad-headed  ape! 
A  weasel  hath  not  such  a  deal  of  spleen 
As  you  are  toss'd  with.     In  faith, 
Til  know  your  business,  Harry,  that  I  will. 
I  fear  my  brother  Mortimer  doth  stir 
About  his  title,  and  hath  sent  for  you 
To  line  his  enterprise.     But  if  you  go  — 

Hot.  So  far  afoot,  I  shall  be  weary,  love. 

Lady  P.  Come,  come,  you  paraquito,  answer  me 
Directly  unto  this  question  that  I  ask. 
In  faith,  I'll  break  thy  little  finger,  Harry, 
An  if  thou  wilt  not  tell  me  all  things  true. 

Hot.  Away, 

Away,  you  trifler!     Love!     I  love  thee  not, 
I  care  not  for  thee,  Kate :  this  is  no  world 
To  play  with  mammets  and  to  tilt  with  lips : 
We  must  have  bloody  noses  and  crack'd  crowns, 
And  pass  them  current  too.     God's  me,  my  horse ! 
What  sayst  thou,    Kate?    what   wouldst  thou  have  with 
me? 

Lady  P.  Do  you  not  love  me  ?  do  you  not,  indeed  ? 
Well,  do  not,  then ;  for  since  you  love  me  not, 
I  will  not  love  myself.     Do  you  not  love  me? 
Nay,  tell  me  if  you  speak  in  jest  or  no. 

Hot.  Come,  wilt  thou  see  me  ride? 
And  when  I  am  o'  horseback,  I  will  swear 
I  love  thee  infinitely.     But  hark  you,  Kate ;  ' 
I  must  not  have  you  henceforth  question  me 

121 


The  Ladies'  Pageant 

Whither  I  go,  nor  reason  whereabout. 
Whither  I  must,  I  must ;  and,  to  conclude, 
This  evening  must  I  leave  you,  gentle  Kate. 
I  know  you  wise ;  but  yet  no  further  wise 
Than  Harry  Percy's  wife :  constant  you  are, 
But  yet  a  woman  :  and  for  secrecy, 
No  lady  closer :  for  I  well  believe 
Thou  wilt  not  utter  what  thou  dost  not  know ; 
And  so  far  will  I  trust  thee,  gentle  Kate. 

Lady  P.  How!  so  far? 

Hot.  Not  an  inch  further.     But,  hark  you,  Kate ; 
Whither  I  go,  thither  shall  you  go  too ; 
To-day  will  I  set  forth,  to-morrow  you. 
Will  this  content  you,  Kate? 

Lady  P.  It  must,  of  force. 

The  Lady  Blanch          'Qy       <^y       ^        <^>       ^y 


daughter  there  of  Spain,  the  Lady  Blanch, 
A      Is  near  to  England :  look  upon  the  years 
Of  Lewis  the  Dauphin  and  that  lovely  maid. 
If  lusty  love  should  go  in  quest  of  beauty, 
Where  should  he  find  it  fairer  than  in  Blanch? 
If  zealous  love  should  go  in  search  of  virtue, 
Where  should  he  find  it  purer  than  in  Blanch  ? 
If  love  ambitious  sought  a  match  of  birth, 
Whose  veins  bound  richer  blood  than  Lady  Blanch? 
Such  as  she  is,  in  beauty,  virtue,  birth, 
Is  the  young  Dauphin  every  way  complete : 
If  not  complete  of,  say  he  is  not  she ; 
And  she  again  wants  nothing,  to  name  want, 
If  want  it  be  not  that  she  is  not  he : 
He  is  the  half  part  of  a  blessed  man, 
Left  to  be  finished  by  such  as  she ; 

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Shakespeare's  Women 

And  she  a  fair  divided  excellence. 
Whose  fulness  of  perfection  lies  in  him. 
O  !  two  such  silver  currents,  when  they  join, 
Do  glorify  the  banks  that  bound  them  in. 

Desdemona        <o       ^v       <ix       <2*       <^- 

r)RABANTIO.  A  maiden  never  bold  ; 

J3     Of  spirit  so  still  and  quiet,  that  her  motion 
Blush'd  at  herself ;  and  she,  in  spite  of  nature, 
Of  years,  of  country,  credit,  everything, 
To  fall  in  love  with  what  she  fear'd  to  look  on  !  .  . 

First  Senator.   But,  Othello,  speak  : 
Did  you  by  indirect  and  forced  courses 
Subdue  and  poison  this  young  maid's  affections  ; 
Or  came  it  by  request  and  such  fair  question 
As  soul  to  soul  affordeth  ? 

Othello.  I  do  beseech  you, 

Send  for  the  lady  to  the  Sagittary, 
And  let  her  speak  of  me  before  her  father :  .  .  . 
And,  till  she  come,  as  truly  as  to  heaven 
I  do  confess  the  vices  of  my  blood, 
So  justly  to  your  grave  ears  111  present 
How  I  did  thrive  in  this  fair  lady's  love, 
And  she  in  mine. 

Duke.  Say  it,  Othello. 

Oth.  Her  father  lov'd  me  ;  oft  invited  me ; 
Still  question'd  me  the  story  of  my  life 
From  year  to  year,  the  battles,  sieges,  fortunes 
That  I  have  pass'd. 

I  ran  it  through,  even  from  my  boyish  days 
To  the  very  moment  that  he  bade  me  tell  it  ; 
Wherein  I  spake  of  most  disastrous  chances, 
Of  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field, 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

Of  hair-breadth  'scapes  i'  the  imminent  deadly  breach, 

Of  being  taken  by  the  insolent  foe 

And  sold  to  slavery,  of  my  redemption  thence 

And  portance  in  my  travel's  history ; 

Wherein  of  antres  vast  and  desarts  idle, 

Rough   quarries,  rocks  and  hills   whose   heads  touch 

heaven, 

It  was  my  hint  to  speak,  such  was  the  process ; 
And  of  the  Cannibals  that  each  other  eat, 
The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  whose  heads 
Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders.     This  to  hear 
Would  Desdemona  seriously  incline  ; 
But  still  the  house-affairs  would  draw  her  thence ; 
Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  dispatch, 
She'd  come  again,  and  with  a  greedy  ear 
Devour  up  my  discourse.     Which  I  observing, 
Took  once  a  pliant  hour,  and  found  good  means 
To  draw  from  her  a  prayer  of  earnest  heart 
That  I  would  all  my  pilgrimage  dilate, 
Whereof  by  parcels  she  had  something  heard, 
But  not  intentively :  I  did  consent ; 
And  often  did  beguile  her  of  her  tears, 
When  I  did  speak  of  some  distressful  stroke 
That  my  youth  sufferd.     My  story  being  done, 
She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world  of  sighs  : 
She  swore,  in  faith,  'twas  strange,  'twas  passing  strange ; 
'Twas  pitiful,  'twas  wondrous  pitiful : 
She  wish'd  she  had  not  heard  it,  yet  she  wish'd 
That  heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man  ;  she  thank'd  me, 
And  bade  me,  if  I  had  a  friend  that  lov'd  her, 
I  should  but  teach  him  how  to  tell  my  story, 
And  that  would  woo  her.     Upon  this  hint  1  spake : 
She  lov'd  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  pass'd, 
And  I  lov'd  her  that  she  did  pity  them. 
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Shakespeare's  Women 

This  only  is  the  witchcraft  I  have  us'd : 
Here  comes  the  lady  ;  let  her  witness  it. 

Enter  DESDEMONA 

Bra.  I  pray  you,  hear  her  speak  : 

If  she  confess  that  she  was  half  the  wooer, 
Destruction  on  my  head,  if  my  bad  blame 
Light  on  the  man !     Come  hither,  gentle  mistress  : 
Do  you  perceive  in  all  this  noble  company 
Where  most  you  owe  obedience? 

Des.  My  noble  father, 

I  do  perceive  here  a  divided  duty : 
To  you  I  am  bound  for  life  and  education ; 
My  life  and  education  both  to  learn  me 
How  to  respect  you ;  you  are  the  lord  of  duty, 
I  am  hitherto  your  daughter :  but  here's  my  husband ; 
And  so  much  duty  as  my  mother  show'd 
To  you,  preferring  you  before  her  father, 
So  much  I  challenge  that  I  may  profess 
Due  to  the  Moor  my  lord. 

Bra.  God  be  with  you  !  I  have  done. 


Cleopatra  <i*       <^y       o       ^       ^       ^> 

Ti/TEC^ENAS.     She's    a    most    triumphant    lady,    it 
JL  rJ.      report  be  square  to  her. 

Enobarbus.    When    she    first    met   Mark    Antony    she 
pursed  up  his  heart,  upon  the  river  of  Cydnus. 

Agrippa.   There  she  appeared  indeed,  or  my  reporter 
devised  well  for  her. 

Eno.    I  will  tell  you. 

The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  burnished  throne. 
Burn'd  on  the  water ;  the  poop  was  beaten  gold, 
125 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 


Purple  the  sails,  and  so  perfumed,  that 

The  winds  were  love-sick  with  them,  the  oars  were  silver, 

Which  to  the  tune  of  flutes  kept  stroke,  and  made 

The  water  which  they  beat  to  follow  faster, 

As  amorous  of  their  strokes.     For  her  own  person, 

It  beggar1  d  all  description  ;  she  did  lie 

In  her  pavilion, — cloth-of-gold  of  tissue, — 

O'er-picturing  that  Venus  where  we  see 

The  fancy  outwork  nature ;  on  each  side  her 

Stood  pretty-dimpled  boys,  like  smiling  Cupids, 

With  divers-colour'd  fans,  whose  wind  did  seem 

To  glow  the  delicate  cheeks  which  they  did  cool, 

And  what  they  undid  did. 

Agr.  O !  rare  for  Antony. 

Eno.    Her  gentlewomen,  like  the  Nereides, 
So  many  mermaids,  tended  her  i'  the  eyes, 
And  made  their  bends  adornings ;  at  the  helm 
A  seeming  mermaid  steers  ;  the  silken  tackle 
Swell  with  the  touches  of  those  flower-soft  hands, 
That  yarely  frame  the  office.     From  the  barge 
A  strange  invisible  perfume  hits  the  sense 
Of  the  adjacent  wharfs.     The  city  cast 
Her  people  out  upon  her,  and  Antony, 
Enthron'd  i1  the  market-place,  did  sit  alone, 
Whistling  to  the  air ;  which,  but  for  vacancy, 
Had  gone  to  gaze  on  Cleopatra  too 
And  made  a  gap  in  nature. 

Agr.  Rare  Egyptian  ! 

Eno.  Upon  her  landing,  Antony  sent  to  her, 
Invited  her  to  supper ;  she  replied 
It  should  be  better  he  became  her  guest, 
Which  she  entreated.     Our  courteous  Antony, 
Whom  ne'er  the  word  of  "  No  "  woman  heard  speak, 
Being  barber'd  ten  times  o'er,  goes  to  the  feast, 
126 


Shakespeare's  Women 

And,  for  his  ordinary  pays  his  heart 
For  what  his  eyes  eat  only. 

Agr.  Royal  wench ! 

She  made  great  Caesar  lay  his  sword  to  bed ; 
He  plough'd  her,  and  she  cropp'd. 

Eno.  I  saw  her  once 

Hop  forty  paces  through  the  public  street ; 
And  having  lost  her  breath,  she  spoke,  and  panted 
That  she  did  make  defect  perfection, 
And,  breathless,  power  breathe  forth. 

Mec.  Now  Antony  must  leave  her  utterly. 

Eno.  Never ;  he  will  not : 
Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety. 


Cordelia     o       ^y       ^y       •^       *^y       *c^       *o 

I 

TS'ENT.   Did   your  letters   pierce  the   queen   to  any 
J-*-      demonstration  of  grief  ? 

Gentleman.    Ay,    sir;    she  took    them,  read   them    in 

my  presence ; 

And  now  and  then  an  ample  tear  trill'd  down 
Her  delicate  cheek  ;  it  seem'd  she  was  a  queen 
Over  her  passion ;  who,  most  rebel-like, 
Sought  to  be  king  o'er  her. 

Kent.  O!  then  it  mov'd  her. 

Gent.  Not   to  a  rage;  patience  and  sorrow  strove 
Who  should  express  her  goodliest.     You  have  seen 
Sunshine  and  rain  at  once ;  her  smiles  and  tears 
Were  like  a  better  way ;  those  happy  smilets 
That  play'd  on  her  ripe  lip  seem'd  not  to  know 
127 


The  Ladies'  Pageant 


What  guests  were  in  her  eyes ;  which  parted  thence, 
As  pearls  from  diamonds  dropp'd.     In  brief, 
Sorrow  would  be  a  rarity  most  belov'd, 
If  all  could  so  become  it. 

Kent.  Made  she  no  verbal  question  ? 

Gent.  Faith,  once   or    twice   she  heav'd   the   name    of 

"  father  " 

Pantingly  forth,  as  if  it  press'd  her  heart; 
Cried,  "  Sisters !  sisters  !     Shame  of  ladies  !  sisters ! 
Kent!  father!  sisters!     What,  i' the  storm?  i'  the  night? 
Let  pity  not  be  believed! "    There  she  shook 
The  holy  water  from  her  heavenly  eyes, 
And  clamour-moisten'd,  then  away  she  started 
To  deal  with  grief  alone. 

II 

Enter  LEAR,  with  CORDELIA  dead  in  his  arms ; 
EDGAR,  Officer,  and  Others. 

Lear.    Howl,   howl,  howl,   howl !     O !  you  are  men  of 

stones : 

Had  I  your  tongues  and  eyes,  I'd  use  them  so 
That  heaven's  vaults  should  crack.     She's  gone  for  ever. 
I  know  when  one  is  dead,  and  when  one  lives ; 
She's  dead  as  earth.     Lend  me  a  looking-glass  ; 
If  that  her  breath  will  mist  or  stain  the  stone, 
Why,  then  she  lives. 

Kent.  Is  this  the  promis'd  end  ? 

Edg.    Or  image  of  that  horror? 
Albany.  Fall  and  cease  ? 

Lear.  This  feather  stirs  ;  she  lives!  if  it  be  so, 
It  is  a  chance  which  does  redeem  all  sorrows 
That  ever  I  have  felt. 

Kent  (kneeling) .  O,  my  good  master  ! 
128 


Shakespeare's  Women 

Lear.  Prithee,  away. 

Edg.  'Tis  noble  Kent,  your  friend. 

Lear.  A  plague  upon  you,  murderers,  traitors  all! 
I  might  have  sav'd  her;  now,  she's  gone  for  ever! 
Cordelia,  Cordelia!  stay  a  little.     Ha! 
What  is't  thou  sayst?     Her  voice  was  ever  soft, 
Gentle  and  low,  an  excellent  thing  in  woman. 
I  kill'd  the  slave  that  was  a  hanging  thee. 

Off.  'Tis  true,  my  lord,  he  did. 

Lear.  Did  I  not,  fellow  ? 

I  have  seen  the  day,  with  my  good  biting  falchion 
I  would  have  made  them  skip :  I  am  old  now, 
And  these  same  crosses  spoil  me. 


Viola  *^y          ^Qy          *^y          O          "^y          -^> 

J7IOLA  Ay,  but  I  know,— 

r         Duke.  What  dost  thou  know? 

Via.  Too  well  what  love  women  to  men  may  owe  : 
In  faith,  they  are  as  true  of  heart  as  we. 
My  father  had  a  daughter  lov'd  a  man, 
As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I  a  woman, 
I  should  your  lordship. 

Duke.  And  what's  her  history? 

Vio.  A  blank,  my  lord.     She  never  told  her  love, 
But  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud, 
Feed  on  her  damask  cheek  :  she  pin'd  in  thought, 
And  with  a  green  and  yellow  melancholy, 
She  sat  like  Patience  on  a  monument, 
Smiling  at  grief.     Was  not  this  love  indeed? 
We  men  may  say  more,  swear  more  ;   but  indeed 
Our  shows  are  more  than  will,  for  still  we  prove 
Much  in  our  vows,  but  little  in  our  love. 
K  129 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 


Bianca 


UCENTIO.     Sacred  and  sweet  was  all  I  saw  in 
her. 


Shakespeare's  Women  ^>       x^       *o       -x> 

YES,  truth  is  the  token  of  Shakespearian  love,  no 
matter  what  the  form  may  be  in  which  it  appears, 
be  it  Miranda,  or  Juliet,  or  Cleopatra. 

While  I  mention  these  names  rather  by  accident  than 
with  intention,  it  occurs  to  me  that  they  really  represent 
the  three  most  deeply  significant  types  of  love.  Miranda 
is  the  representative  of  a  love  which,  without  previous 
influences  of  any  kind,  could  only  develop  its  highest 
ideality  as  the  flower  of  an  untrodden  soil  which  only 
the  feet  of  spirits  had  trodden. 

Ariel's  melodies  have  trained  her  heart,  and  sensuality 
has  never  been  known  to  her,  save  in  the  horribly  hideous 
form  of  a  Caliban.  The  love  which  Ferdinand  awakes 
in  her  is  therefore  not  really  nai've  but  of  a  happy  true- 
heartedness,  of  an  early-world  like,  almost  terrible  purity. 
Juliet's  love  shows  like  her  age  and  all  around  her,  a  more 
romantic  mediaeval  character,  and  one  blooming  into 
the  Renaissance  ;  it  glitters  in  colours  like  the  court 
of  the  Scaligeri,  and  yet  is  strong  as  of  those  noble 
races  of  Lombardy  which  were  rejuvenated  with  German 
blood  and  loved  as  strongly  as  they  hated. 

Juliet  represents  the  love  of  a  youthful,  rather  rough, 
but  of  an  unspoiled  and  fresh  era.  She  is  entirely  in- 
spired with  the  sensuous  glow  and  strength  of  belief  of 
such  a  time,  and  even  the  cold  decay  of  the  burial  vault 
can  neither  shake  her  faith  nor  cool  her  flame. 

Our  Cleopatra!  --ah,  she  sets  forth  the  love  of  a  sickly 
130 


Shakespeare's  Women 

civilisation  —  an  eye  whose  beauty  is  faded,  whose  locks 
are  curled  with  the  utmost  art,  anointed  with  all  pleasant 
perfumes,  but  in  which  many  a  grey  hair  may  be  seen, 
a  time  which  will  empty  the  cup  held  out  to  it  all  the 
more  hastily  because  it  is  full  of  dregs.  This  love  is 
without  faith  or  truth,  but  for  all  that  none  the  less 
wild  or  glowing.  In  the  vexed  consciousness  that  this 
heart  is  not  to  be  subdued,  the  impatient  woman  pours 
still  more  oil  into  it,  and  casts  herself  like  a  Bacchante 
into  the  blazing  flame.  She  is  cowardly,  and  yet  inspired 
with  desire  for  her  own  destruction.  Love  is  always 
a  kind  of  madness,  more  or  less  beautiful,  but  in  this 
Egyptian  queen  it  rises  to  the  most  horrible  lunacy. 
Such  love  is  a  raging  comet,  which  with  its  flaming  train 
darts  into  unheard-of  orbits  through  heaven,  terrifies  all 
even  if  it  does  not  injure  them,  and  at  last,  miserably 
crackling  together,  is  scattered  like  a  rocket  into  a  thou- 
sand pieces. 

Yes,  thou  wert  like  a  terrible  comet,  beautiful  Cleo- 
patra, and  thou  didst  glow  not  only  into  thine  own  ruin, 
but  wert  ominous  of  evil  for  those  of  thy  time!  With 
Antony  the  old  heroic  Roman  spirit  came  to  a  wretched 
end. 

But  wherewith  shall  I  compare  you,  O  Juliet  and  Mi- 
randa? I  look  again  to  heaven,  seeking  for  a  simile. 
It  may  be  behind  the  stars  where  my  glance  cannot 
pierce.  Perhaps  if  the  glowing  sun  had  the  mildness 
of  the  moon  I  could  compare  it  to  thee,  O  Juliet!  And 
were  the  gentle  moon  gifted  with  the  glow  of  the  sun, 
I  would  say  it  was  like  thee,  Miranda! 

Heinrich  Heine 


XI 
SIR  WALTER'S  LADIES 

Sir  Walter's  Ladies      *^y        -^       <>x        •<^>        "v>x 

IN  the  whole  range  of  these  [the  Waverley  novels]  there 
are  but  three  men  who  reach  the  heroic  type  —  Dandie 
Dinmont,  Rob  Roy,  and  Claverhouse :  of  these,  one  is  a 
border  farmer ;  another  a  freebooter ;  the  third  a  soldier 
in  a  bad  cause.  And  these  touch  the  ideal  of  heroism 
only  in  their  courage  and  faith,  together  with  a  strong, 
but  uncultivated,  or  mistakenly  applied,  intellectual 
power ;  while  his  younger  men  are  the  gentlemanly  play- 
things of  fantastic  fortune,  and  only  by  aid  (or  accident) 
of  that  fortune,  survive,  not  vanquish,  the  trials  they 
involuntarily  sustain.  Of  any  disciplined,  or  consistent 
character,  earnest  in  a  purpose  wisely  conceived,  or 
dealing  with  forms  of  hostile  evil,  definitely  challenged, 
and  resolutely  subdued,  there  is  no  trace  in  his  con- 
ceptions of  men.  Whereas  in  his  imaginations  of  women, 
—  in  the  characters  of  Ellen  Douglas,  of  Flora  Maclvor, 
Rose  Bradwardine,  Catherine  Seyton,  Diana  Vernon, 
Lilias  Redgauntlet,  Alice  Bridgenorth,  Alice  Lee,  and 
Jeanie  Deans, — with  endless  varieties  of  grace,  tender- 
ness, and  intellectual  power,  we  find  in  all  a  quite  in- 
fallible and  inevitable  sense  of  dignity  and  justice ;  a 
fearless,  instant,  and  untiring  self-sacrifice  to  even  the 
132 


Sir  Walter's  Ladies 

appearance  of  duty,  much  more  to  its  real  claims;  and, 
finally,  a  patient  wisdom  of  deeply  restrained  affection, 
which  does  infinitely  more  than  protect  its  objects  from 
a  momentary  error;  it  gradually  forms,  animates,  and 
exalts  the  characters  of  the  unworthy  lovers,  until,  at 
the  close  of  the  tale,  we  are  just  able,  and  no  more,  to 
take  patience  in  hearing  of  their  unmerited  success. 

So  that  in  all  cases,  with  Scott  as  with  Shakespeare,  it 
is  the  woman  who  watches  over,  teaches,  and  guides  the 
youth ;  it  is  never,  by  any  chance,  the  youth  who  watches 
over  or  educates  his  mistress. 

John  Ruskin 

Rebecca  <^y       <>».       -<^x       <ix       <^>-       <iv 

THE  figure  of  Rebecca  might  indeed  have  compared 
with  the  proudest  beauties  of  England,  even  though 
it  had  been  judged  by  as  shrewd  a  connoisseur  as  Prince 
John.  Her  form  was  exquisitely  symmetrical,  and  was 
shown  to  advantage  by  a  sort  of  Eastern  dress,  which 
she  wore  according  to  the  fashion  of  the  females  of  her 
nation.  Her  turban  of  yellow  silk  suited  well  with  the 
darkness  of  her  complexion.  The  brilliancy  of  her  eyes, 
the  superb  arch  of  her  eyebrows,  her  well-formed  aquiline 
nose,  her  teeth  as  white  as  pearl,  and  the  profusion  of 
her  sable  tresses,  which,  each  arranged  in  its  own  little 
spiral  of  twisted  curls,  fell  down  upon  as  much  of  a 
lovely  neck  and  bosom  as  a  simarre  of  the  richest  Persian 
silk,  exhibiting  flowers  in  their  natural  colours  embossed 
upon  a  purple  ground,  permitted  to  be  visible  —  all  these 
constituted  a  combination  of  loveliness,  which  yielded 
not  to  the  most  beautiful  of  the  maidens  who  surrounded 
her.  It  is  true,  that  of  the  golden  and  pearl-studded 
clasps,  which  closed  her  vest  from  the  throat  to  the 
'33 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

waist,  the  three  uppermost  were  left  unfastened  on  account 
of  the  heat,  which  something  enlarged  the  prospect  to 
which  we  allude.  A  diamond  necklace,  with  pendants 
of  inestimable  value,  were  by  this  means  also  made  more 
conspicuous.  The  feather  of  an  ostrich,  fastened  in  her 
turban  by  an  agraffe  set  with  brilliants,  was  another 
distinction  of  the  beautiful  Jewess,  scoffed  and  sneered 
at  by  the  proud  dames  who  sat  above  her,  but  secretly 
envied  by  those  who  affected  to  deride  them. 

"By  the  bald  scalp  of  Abraham,"  said  Prince  John, 
"  yonder  Jewess  must  be  the  very  model  of  that  perfec- 
tion, whose  charms  drove  frantic  the  wisest  king  that 
ever  lived  !  What  sayest  thou,  Prior  Aymer  ?  —  By  the 
Temple  of  that  wise  king,  which  our  wiser  brother  Richard 
proved  unable  to  recover,  she  is  the  very  Bride  of  the 
Canticles  !" 

"The  Rose  of  Sharon  and  the  Lily  of  the  Valley," 
answered  the  Prior,  in  a  sort  of  snuffling  tone ;  "  but 
your  Grace  must  remember  she  is  still  but  a  Jewess." 

{From  "  Ivanhoe  ") 

Di  Vernon          ^^y       <^y       ^>       ^>       *o       *^y 

IT  was  a  young  lady,  the  loveliness  of  whose  very 
striking  features  was  enhanced  by  the  animation 
of  the  chase  and  the  glow  of  the  exercise,  mounted  on 
a  beautiful  horse,  jet  black,  unless  where  he  was  flecked 
by  spots  of  the  snow-white  foam  which  embossed  his 
bridle.  She  wore,  what  was  then  somewhat  unusual,  a 
coat,  vest,  and  hat,  resembling  those  of  a  man,  which 
fashion  has  since  called  a  riding  habit.  The  mode  had 
been  introduced  while  I  was  in  France,  and  was  perfectly 
new  to  me.  Her  long  black  hair  streamed  on  the  breeze, 
having  in  the  hurry  of  the  chase  escaped  from  the  ribbon 


Sir  Walter's   Ladies 

which  bound  it.  Some  very  broken  ground,  through  which 
she  guided  her  horse  with  the  most  admirable  address 
and  presence  of  mind,  retarded  her  course,  and  brought 
her  closer  to  me  than  any  of  the  other  riders  had  passed. 
I  had,  therefore,  a  full  view  of  her  uncommonly  fine  face 
and  person,  to  which  an  inexpressible  charm  was  added 
by  the  wild  gaiety  of  the  scene,  and  the  romance  of  her 
singular  dress  and  unexpected  appearance.  .  .  . 

"  But  here  we  are  in  the  court  of  the  old  Hall,  which 
looks  as  wild  and  old-fashioned  as  any  of  its  inmates. 
There  is  no  great  toilette  kept  at  Osbaldistone  Hall,  you 
must  know ;  but  I  must  take  off  these  things,  they  are 
so  unpleasantly  warm,  —  and  the  hat  hurts  my  forehead, 
too,"  continued  the  lively  girl,  taking  it  off,  and  shaking 
down  a  profusion  of  sable  ringlets,  which,  half  laughing, 
half  blushing,  she  separated  with  her  white  slender  fingers, 
in  order  to  clear  them  away  from  her  beautiful  face  and 
piercing  hazel  eyes.  If  there  was  any  coquetry  in  the 
action,  it  was  well  disguised  by  the  careless  indifference 
of  her  manner. 

(From  "  Rob  Roy  ") 

Catherine  Seton         ^v        <^        *o        -o        ^> 

ROLAND  had  time  to  observe  that  the  face  was  that 
of  a  girl  apparently  not  much  past  sixteen,  and  that 
the  eyes  were  at  once  soft  and  brilliant.  To  these  very 
favourable  observations  was  added  the  certainty  that  the 
fair  object  to  whom  they  referred  possessed  an  excellent 
shape,  bordering  perhaps  on  embonpoint,  and  therefore 
rather  that  of  a  Hebe  than  of  a  sylph,  but  beautifully 
formed,  and  shown  to  great  advantage  by  the  close 
jacket  and  petticoat,  which  she  wore  after  a  foreign 
fashion,  the  last  not  quite  long  enough  to  conceal  a 

»3S 


The   Ladies'    Pageant 

very  pretty  foot,  which  rested  on  a  bar  of  the  table 
at  which  she  sat;  her  round  arms  and  taper  fingers 
very  busily  employed  in  repairing  the  piece  of  tapestry 
which  was  spread  on  it,  which  exhibited  several  de- 
plorable fissures,  enough  to  demand  the  utmost  skill  of 
the  most  expert  sempstress.  .  .  . 

Catherine  was  at  the  happy  age  of  innocence  and 
buoyancy  of  spirit,  when,  after  the  first  moment  of 
embarrassment  was  over,  a  situation  of  awkwardness, 
like  that  in  which  she  was  suddenly  left  to  make  ac- 
quaintance with  a  handsome  youth  not  even  known  to 
her  by  name,  struck  her,  in  spite  of  herself,  in  a  ludicrous 
point  of  view.  She  bent  her  beautiful  eyes  upon  the  work 
with  which  she  was  busied,  and  with  infinite  gravity  sat 
out  the  two  first  turns  of  the  matrons  upon  the  balcony ; 
but  then,  glancing  her  deep  blue  eye  a  little  towards 
Roland,  and  observing  the  embarrassment  under  which 
he  laboured,  —  now  shifting  on  his  chair,  and  now  dangling 
his  cap,  the  whole  man  evincing  that  he  was  perfectly 
at  a  loss  how  to  open  the  conversation,  —  she  could  keep 
her  composure  no  longer,  but  after  a  vain  struggle  broke 
out  into  a  sincere,  though  a  very  involuntary  fit  of 
laughing,  so  richly  accompanied  by  the  laughter  of  her 
merry  eyes,  which  actually  glanced  through  the  tears 
which  the  effort  filled  them  with,  and  by  the  waving  of 
her  rich  tresses,  that  the  goddess  of  smiles  herself  never 
looked  more  lovely  than  Catherine  at  that  moment. 

(From  «  The  Abbot ") 

Rose  Bradwardine          -Qy       ^>        -^>       <^-       *^ 

MISS    BRADWARDINE    was    but   seventeen;    yet, 
at    the    last    races    of   the   county   town  of , 

upon   her   health    being    proposed    among    a    round    of 

beauties,    the   Laird   of  Bumperquaigh,  permanent  toast- 

136 


Sir  Walter's  Ladies 

master  and  croupier  of  the  Bauthenvhillery  Club,  not 
only  said  More  to  the  pledge  in  a  pint  bumper  of 
Bourdeaux;  but,  ere  pouring  forth  the  libation,  de- 
nominated the  divinity  to  whom  it  was  dedicated, 
"the  Rose  of  Tully-Veolan ; "  upon  which  festive 
occasion,  three  cheers  were  given  by  all  the  sitting 
members  of  that  respectable  society,  whose  throats 
the  wine  had  left  capable  of  such  exertion.  Nay,  I 
am  well  assured,  that  the  sleeping  partners  of  the 
company  snorted  applause,  and  that  although  strong 
bumpers  and  weak  brains  had  consigned  two  or  three 
to  the  floor,  yet  even  these,  fallen  as  they  were  from 
their  high  estate,  and  weltering  —  I  will  carry  the  parody 
no  farther  —  uttered  divers  inarticulate  sounds,  intimating 
their  assent  to  the  motion. 

Such  unanimous  applause  could  not~be  extorted  but 
by  acknowledged  merit ;  and  Rose  Bradwardine  not  only 
deserved  it,  but  also  the  approbation  of  much  more 
rational  persons  than  the  Bautherwhillery  Club  could 
have  mustered,  even  before  discussion-  of  the  first 
magnum.  She  was  indeed  a  very  pretty  girl  of  the 
Scotch  cast  of  beauty,  that  is,  with  a  profusion  of  hair 
of  paley  gold,  and  a  skin  like  the  snow  of  her  own 
mountains  in  whiteness.  Yet  she  had  not  a  pallid  or 
pensive  cast  of  countenance ;  her  features,  as  well  as 
her  temper,  had  a  lively  expression ;  her  complexion, 
though  not  florid,  was  so  pure  as  to  seem  transparent, 
and  the  slightest  emotion  sent  her  whole  blood  at  once 
to  her  face  and  neck.  Her  form,  though  under  the 
common  size,  was  remarkably  elegant,  and  her  motions 
light,  easy,  and  unembarrassed.  She  came  from  another 
part  of  the  garden  to  receive  Captain  Waverley,  with  a 
manner  that  hovered  between  bashfulness  and  courtesy. 
(From  "  Waverley  ") 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

Mistress  Bethune  Baliol  (Mrs.  Murray  Keith)  ^^ 

A/TISTRESS  MARTHA  BETHUNE  BALIOL  was 
!»•*•  a  person  of  quality  and  fortune,  as  these  are 
esteemed  in  Scotland.  Her  family  was  ancient  and  her 
connections  honourable.  She  was  not  fond  of  specially 
indicating  her  exact  age,  but  her  juvenile  recollections 
stretched  backwards  till  before  the  eventful  year  1745; 
and  she  remembered  the  Highland  clans  being  in 
possession  of  the  Scottish  capital,  though  probably  only 
as  an  indistinct  vision.  Her  fortune,  independent  by  her 
father's  bequest,  was  rendered  opulent  by  the  death  of 
more  than  one  brave  brother,  who  fell  successively  in 
the  service  of  their  country;  so  that  the  family  estates 
became  vested  in  the  only  surviving  child  of  the  ancient 
house  of  Bethune  Baliol.  My  intimacy  was  formed  with 
the  excellent  lady  after  this  event,  and  when  she  was 
already  something  advanced  in  age. 

She  inhabited,  when  in  Edinburgh,  where  she 
regularly  spent  the  winter  season,  one  of  those  old 
hotels  which  till  of  late  were  to  be  found  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  Canongate  and  of  the  Palace  of 
Holyrood  House,  and  which,  separated  from  the  street, 
now  dirty  and  vulgar,  by  paved  courts  and  gardens  of 
some  extent,  made  amends  for  an  indifferent  access  by 
showing  something  of  aristocratic  state  and  seclusion, 
when  you  were  once  admitted  within  their  precincts.  .  .  . 
You  entered  by  a  matted  anteroom  into  the  eating 
parlour,  filled  with  old-fashioned  furniture  and  hung  with 
family  portraits,  which,  excepting  one  of  Sir  Bernard 
Bethune  in  James  the  Sixth's  time,  said  to  be  by 
Jameson,  were  exceedingly  frightful.  A  saloon,  as  it 
was  called,  a  long  narrow  chamber,  led  out  of  the 
dining  parlour  and  served  for  a  drawing-room.  It  was  a 
138 


Sir  Walter's   Ladies 

pleasant  apartment,  looking  out  upon  the  south  flank  c/ 
Holyrood  House,  the  gigantic  slope  of  Arthur's  Seat, 
and  the  girdle  of  lofty  rocks  called  Salisbury  Crags  — 
objects  so  rudely  wild  that  the  mind  can  hardly  conceive 
them  to  exist  in  the  vicinage  of  a  populous  metropolis. 
The  paintings  of  the  saloon  came  from  abroad,  and  had 
some  of  them  much  merit.1  To  see  the  best  of  them,  how- 
ever, you  must  be  admitted  into  the  very  penetralia  of 
the  temple,  and  allowed  to  draw  the  tapestry  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  saloon,  and  enter  Mistress  Martha's 
own  special  dressing-room.  This  was  a  charming  apart- 
ment, of  which  it  would  be  difficult  to  describe  the  form, 
it  had  so  many  recesses,  which  were  filled  up  with  shelves 
of  ebony,  and  cabinets  of  japan  and  or  molu  \  some  for 
holding  books,  of  which  Mistress  Martha  had  an  admirable 
collection,  some  for  a  display  of  ornamental  china,  others 
for  shells  and  similar  curiosities.  .  .  . 

There  were  some  Italian  and  Flemish  pictures  of  ad- 
mitted authenticity,  a  few  genuine  bronzes  and  other 
objects  of  curiosity,  which  her  brothers  or  herself  had 
picked  up  while  abroad.  In  short,  it  was  a  place  where 
the  idle  were  tempted  to  become  studious,  the  studious 
to  grow  idle  —  where  the  grave  might  find  matter  to  make 
them  gay,  and  the  gay  subjects  for  gravity.  .  .  . 

In  the  little  boudoir  we  have  described  Mistress 
Martha  Baliol  had  her  choicest  meetings.  She  kept 
early  hours ;  and  if  you  went  in  the  morning,  you  must 
not  reckon  that  space  of  day  as  extending  beyond  three 
o'clock  or  four  at  the  utmost.  These  vigilant  habits 
were  attended  with  some  restraint  on  her  visitors,  but 
they  were  indemnified  by  your  always  finding  the  best 
society  and  the  best  information  which  was  to  be  had 
for  the  day  in  the  Scottish  capital.  Without  at  all  af- 
fecting the  blue-stocking,  she  liked  books,  they  amused 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

her  —  and  if  the  authors  were  persons  of  character^ 
she  thought  she  owed  them  a  debt  of  civility,  which 
she  loved  to  discharge  by  personal  kindness.  When  she 
gave  a  dinner  to  a  small  party,  which  she  did  now  and 
then,  she  had  the  good-nature  to  look  for,  and  the  good 
luck  to  discover,  what  sort  of  people  suited  each  other 
best,  and  chose  her  company  as  Duke  Theseus  did  his 
hounds,  — 

matched  in  mouth  like  bells, 

Each  under  each, 

so  that  every  guest  could  take  his  part  in  the  cry,  instead 
of  one  mighty  Tom  of  a  fellow,  like  Doctor  Johnson, 
silencing  all  besides  by  the  tremendous  depth  of  his 
diapason.  On  such  occasions  she  afforded  chere  ex- 
quise;  and  every  now  and  then  there  was  some  dish 
of  French,  or  even  Scottish  derivation,  which,  as  well 
as  the  numerous  assortment  of  vins  extraordinaires 
produced  by  Mr.  Beauffet,  gave  a  sort  of  antique  and 
foreign  air  to  the  entertainment,  which  rendered  it  more 
interesting.  .  .  . 

A  little  woman,  with  ordinary  features,  and  an  ordinary 
form,  and  hair  which  in  youth  had  no  decided  colour,  we 
may  believe  Mistress  Martha,  when  she  said  of  herself 
that  she  was  never  remarkable  for  personal  charms ;  a 
modest  admission,  which  was  readily  confirmed  by 
certain  old  ladies,  her  contemporaries,  who,  whatever 
might  have  been  the  useful  advantages  which  they  more 
than  hinted  had  been  formerly  their  own  share,  were 
now  in  personal  appearance,  as  well  as  in  everything 
else,  far  inferior  to  my  accomplished  friend.  Mistress 
Martha's  features  had  been  of  a  kind  which  might  be 
said  to  wear  well ;  their  irregularity  was  now  of  little 
consequence,  animated  as  they  were  by  the  vivacity  of 
her  conversation ;  her  teeth  were  excellent,  and  her  eyes, 
140 


Sir  Walter's  Ladies 

although  inclining  to  grey,  were  lively,  laughing,  and 
undimmed  by  time.  A  slight  shade  of  complexion,  more 
brilliant  than  her  years  promised,  subjected  my  friend, 
amongst  strangers,  to  the  suspicion  of  having  stretched 
her  foreign  habits  as  far  as  the  prudent  touch  of  the 
rouge.  But  it  was  a  calumny;  for  when  telling  or 
listening  to  an  interesting  and  affecting  story,  I  have 
seen  her  colour  come  and  go  as  if  it  played  on  the  cheek 
of  eighteen. 

Her  hair,  whatever  its  former  deficiencies,  was  now 
the  most  beautiful  white  that  time  could  bleach,  and  was 
disposed  with  some  degree  of  pretension,  though  in  the 
simplest  manner  possible,  so  as  to  appear  neatly 
smoothed  under  a  cap  of  Flanders  lace,  of  an  old- 
fashioned,  but,  as  I  thought,  of  a  very  handsome  form, 
which  undoubtedly  has  a  name,  and  I  would  endeavour 
to  recur  to  it,  if  I  thought  it  would  make  my  description 
a  bit  more  intelligible.  I  think  I  have  heard  her  say 
these  favourite  caps  had  been  her  mother's,  and  had 
come  in  fashion  with  a  peculiar  kind  of  wig  used  by 
the  gentlemen  about  the  time  of  the  battle  of  Ramillies. 
The  rest  of  her  dress  was  always  rather  costly  and 
distinguished,  especially  in  the  evening.  A  silk  or  satin 
gown,  of  some  colour  becoming  her  age,  and  of  a  form 
which,  though  complying  to  a  certain  degree  with  the 
present  fashion,  had  always  a  reference  to  some  more 
distant  period,  was  garnished  with  triple  ruffles  ;  her 
shoes  had  diamond  buckles,  and  were  raised  a  little  at 
heel,  an  advantage  which,  possessed  in  her  youth,  she 
alleged  her  size  would  not  permit  her  to  forego  in  her 
old  age.  She  always  wore  rings,  bracelets,  and  other 
ornaments  of  value,  either  for  the  materials  or  the 
workmanship;  nay,  perhaps  she  was  a  little  profuse  in 
this  species  of  display.  But  she  wore  them  as  sub- 
141 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

ordinate  matters,  to  which  the  habit  of  being  constantly 
in  high  life  rendered  her  indifferent.  She  wore  them 
because  her  rank  required  it  ;  and  thought  no  more  of 
them  as  articles  of  finery  than  a  gentleman  dressed  for 
dinner  thinks  of  his  clean  linen  and  well-brushed  coat, 
the  consciousness  of  which  embarrasses  the  rustic  beau 
on  a  Sunday. 

Now  and  then,  however,  if  a  gem  or  ornament  chanced 
to  be  noticed  for  its  beauty  or  singularity,  the  observa- 
tion usually  led  the  way  to  an  entertaining  account  of 
the  manner  in  which  it  had  been  acquired,  or  the  person 
from  whom  it  had  descended  to  its  present  possessor. 
On  such  and  similar  occasions  my  old  friend  spoke 
willingly,  which  is  not  uncommon  ;  but  she  also,  which 
is  more  rare,  spoke  remarkably  well,  and  had  in  her 
little  narratives  concerning  foreign  parts  or  former  days, 
which  formed  an  interesting  part  of  her  conversation, 
the  singular  art  of  dismissing  all  the  usual  protracted 
tautology  respecting  time,  place,  and  circumstances, 
which  is  apt  to  settle  like  a  mist  upon  the  cold  and 
languid  tales  of  age,  and  at  the  same  time  of  bringing 
forward,  dwelling  upon,  and  illustrating  those  incidents 
and  characters  which  give  point  and  interest  to  the  story. 
(From  '•'•Chronicles  of  the  Canongate") 


Varia 


A 


MAN  must  be  a  man,  and  a  woman  a  woman. 

Sancho  Panza 


THE  good  woman  doth  not  say,  "  Will  you  have  this  ?  " 

but  gives  it  you. 

Italian  Proverb 

TAKE  your  wife's  first  advice,  not  her  second. 

Spanish  Proverb 
142 


Sir  Walter's  Ladies 

ALL  women,  let  them  be  never  so  homely,  are  pleased 
to  hear  themselves  celebrated  for  beauty. 

Dorothea  in  "Don  Quixote" 

THOUGH   there  is   little   in  a  woman's   advice,  yet   he 

that  won't  take  it  is  not  over-wise. 

Sancho  Panza 

FOR  we  males,  be  we  angelic  as  we  may,  are   always 

surpassed  by  the  ladies. 

Coivper 

"  SIR,  a  very  wise  woman  is  a  very  foolish  thing." 

William,  Duke  of  Newcastle 

THE  happiest  women,  like  the  happiest  nations,  have 

no  history. 

George  Eliot 

WOMAN  is  manne's  joy  and  manne's  bliss. 

Chaucer 

TALK  to  women  as  much  as  you  can.  This  is  the  best 
school.  This  is  the  way  to  gain  fluency,  because  you 
need  not  care  what  you  say,  and  had  better  not  be 

sensible. 

Baron  Fleming  in  "  Contartm  Fleming 

ALL  the  privilege  I  claim  for  my  own  sex  (it  is  not  a 
very  enviable  one,  you  need  not  covet  it)  is  that  of  loving 
longest,  when  existence  or  when  hope  is  gone. 

Anne  Elliot  in  "  Persuasion  " 

A  GOOD  wife  is  the  workmanship  of  a  good  husband. 

Spanish  Proverb 

THAT'S  what  a  man  wants  in  a  wife,  mostly ;  he  wants 
to  make  sure  o'  one  fool  as  'ull  tell  him  he's  wise. 

Mrs.  Poyser 
H3 


XII 
A  SPECIAL  TRIO 

Beatrix      ^>       ^y       ^>       *^y       'Qy       ^>       ^^ 
I 

THIS  laughing  colloquy  took  place  in  the  hall  of 
Walcote  House :  in  the  midst  of  which  is  a 
staircase  that  leads  from  an  open  gallery,  where  are  the 
doors  of  the  sleeping  chambers ;  and  from  one  of  these, 
a  wax  candle  in  her  hand,  and  illuminating  her,  came 
Mistress  Beatrix  —  the  light  falling  indeed  upon  the 
scarlet  ribbon  which  she  wore,  and  upon  the  most 
brilliant  white  neck  in  the  world. 

Esmond  had  left  a  child  and  found  a  woman,  grown 
beyond  the  common  height ;  and  arrived  at  such  a 
dazzling  completeness  of  beauty,  that  his  eyes  might  well 
show  surprise  and  delight  at  beholding  her.  In  hers 
there  was  a  brightness  so  lustrous  and  melting,  that  I 
have  seen  a  whole  assembly  follow  her  as  if  by  an 
attraction  irresistible:  and  that  night  the  great  Duke 
was  at  the  playhouse  after  Ramillies,  every  soul  turned 
and  looked  (she  chanced  to  enter  at  the  opposite  side  of 
the  theatre  at  the  same  moment)  at  her,  and  not  at  him. 
She  was  a  brown  beauty :  that  is,  her  eyes,  hair,  and 
144 


A  Special  Trio 

eyebrows  and  eyelashes  were  dark :  her  hair  curling 
with  rich  undulations,  and  waving  over  her  shoulders ; 
but  her  complexion  was  as  dazzling  white  as  snow  in 
sunshine;  except  her  cheeks,  which  were  a  bright  red, 
and  her  lips,  which  were  of  a  still  deeper  crimson.  Her 
mouth  and  chin,  they  said,  were  too  large  and  full,  and 
so  they  might  be  for  a  goddess  in  marble,  but  not  for  a 
woman  whose  eyes  were  fire,  whose  look  was  love,  whose 
voice  was  the  sweetest  low  song,  whose  shape  was 
perfect  symmetry,  health,  decision,  activity,  whose  foot 
as  it  planted  itself  on  the  ground  was  firm  but  flexible, 
and  whose  motion,  whether  rapid  or  slow,  was  always 
perfect  grace  —  agile  as  a  nymph,  lofty  as  a  queen —  now 
melting,  now  imperious,  now  sarcastic  —  there  was  no 
single  movement  of  hers  but  was  beautiful. 

II 

WHAT  is  the  meaning  of  fidelity  in  love,  and  whence 
the  birth  of  it  ?  'Tis  a  state  of  mind  that  men 
fall  into,  and  depending  on  the  man  rather  than  the  woman. 
We  love  being  in  love,  that's  the  truth  onH.  If  we  had 
not  met  Joan,  we  should  have  met  Kate,  and  adored  her. 
We  know  our  mistresses  are  no  better  than  many  other 
women,  nor  no  prettier,  nor  no  wiser,  nor  no  wittier. 
'Tis  not  for  these  reasons  we  love  a  woman,  or  for  any 
special  quality  or  charm  I  know  of;  we  might  as  well 
demand  that  a  lady  should  be  the  tallest  woman  in  the 
world,  like  the  Shropshire  giantess,  as  that  she  should 
be  a  paragon  in  any  other  character,  before  we  began 
to  love  her.  Esmond's  mistress  had  a  thousand  faults 
beside  her  charms ;  he  knew  both  perfectly  well  !  She 
was  imperious,  she  was  light-minded,  she  was  flighty, 
she  was  false,  she  had  no  reverence  in  her  character ;  she 
was  in  everything,  even  in  beauty,  the  contrast  of  her 

L  H5 


The   Ladies'    Pageant 

mother,  who  was  the  most  devoted  and  the  least  selfish 
of  women.  Well,  from  the  very  first  moment  he  saw  her 
on  the  stairs  at  Walcote,  Esmond  knew  he  loved  Beatrix. 
There  might  be  better  women —  he  wanted  that  one.  He 
cared  for  none  other.  Was  it  because  she  was  gloriously 
beautiful  ?  Beautiful  as  she  was,  he  had  heard  people 
say  a  score  of  times  in  their  company  that  Beatrix's 
mother  looked  as  young,  and  was  the  handsomer  of  the 
two.  Why  did  her  voice  thrill  in  his  ear  so?  She  could 
not  sing  near  so  well  as  Nicolini  or  Mrs.  Tofts  ;  nay,  she 
sang  out  of  tune,  and  yet  he  liked  to  hear  her  better  than 
St.  Cecilia.  She  had  not  a  finer  complexion  than  Mrs. 
Steele  (Dick's  wife,  whom  he  had  now  got,  and  who 
ruled  poor  Dick  with  a  rod  of  pickle),  and  yet  to  see  her 
dazzled  Esmond;  he  would  shut  his  eyes,  and  the 
thought  of  her  dazzled  him  all  the  same.  She  was 
brilliant  and  lively  in  talk,  but  not  so  incomparably  witty 
as  her  mother,  who,  when  she  was  cheerful,  said  the 
finest  things ;  but  yet  to  hear  her,  and  to  be  with  her,  was 
Esmond's  greatest  pleasure.  Days  passed  away  between 
him  and  these  ladies,  he  scarce  knew  how.  He  poured 
his  heart  out  to  them,  so  as  he  never  could  in  any  other 
company,  where  he  had  generally  passed  for  being 
moody,  or  supercilious  and  silent.  This  society  was 
more  delightful  than  that  of  the  greatest  wits  to  him. 

W.  M.  Thackeray 


Clara  Middleton        *^y        •^        <^>.        ^y        *o 

SHE  had  the  mouth  that  smiles  in  repose.     The  lips 
met  full   on  the  centre  of   the  bow  and   thinned 
along  to  a  lifting  dimple ;  the  eyelids  also  lifted  slightly 
at  the  outer  corners  and   seemed,  like   the   lip   into   the 
146 


A  Special  Trio 

limpid  cheek,  quickening  up  the  temples,  as  with  a  run 
of  light,  or  the  ascension  indicated  off  a  shoot  of  colour. 
Her  features  were  play-fellows  of  one  another,  none  of 
them  pretending  to  rigid  correctness,  nor  the  nose  to 
the  ordinary  dignity  of  a  governess  among  merry 
girls,  despite  which  the  nose  was  of  a  fair  design,  not 
acutely  interrogative  or  inviting  to  gambols.  Aspens 
imaged  in  water,  waiting  for  the  breeze,  would  offer 
a  susceptible  lover  some  suggestion  of  her  face :  a  pure 
smooth-white  face,  tenderly  flushed  in  the  cheeks^ 
where  the  gentle  dints  were  faintly  intermelting  even 
during  quietness.  Her  eyes  were  brown,  set  well 
between  mild  lids,  often  shadowed,  not  unwakeful.  Her 
hair  of  lighter  brown,  swelling  above  her  temples  on 
the  sweep  to  the  knot,  imposed  the  triangle  of  the 
fabulous  wild  woodland  visage  from  brow  to  mouth  and 
chin,  evidently  in  agreement  with  her  taste ;  and  the 
triangle  suited  her;  but  her  face  was  not  significant  of 
a  tameless  wildness  or  of  weakness ;  her  equable  shut 
mouth  threw  its  long  curve  to  guard  the  small  round 
chin  from  that  effect  5  her  eyes  wavered  only  in  humour, 
they  were  steady  when  thoughtful  ness  was  awakened; 
and  at  such  seasons  the  build  of  her  winter-beechwood 
hair  lost  the  touch  of  nymph-like  and  whimsical,  and 
strangely,  by  mere  outline,  added  to  her  appearance  of 
studious  concentration. 

Observe  the  hawk  on  stretched  wings  over  the  prey  he 
spies,  for  an  idea  of  this  change  in  the  look  of  a  young 
lady  whom  Vernon  Whitford  could  liken  to  the  Mountain 
Echo,  and  Mrs.  Mountstuart  Jenkinson  pronounced  to  be 
"  a  dainty  rogue  in  porcelain." 

George  Meredith 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

Miss  Jane  Cox  <^        ^^        ^>        ^>        <^y 

SHE  is  an  East  Indian  and  ought  to  be  her  grand- 
father's Heir.  At  the  time  I  called  Mrs.  R.  was  in 
conference  with  her  up  stairs,  calling  her  genteel,  interest- 
ing and  a  thousand  other  pretty  things  to  which  I  gave 
no  heed,  not  being  partial  to  9  days'  wonders.  Now 
all  is  completely  changed — they  hate  her,  and  from  what 
I  hear  she  is  not  without  faults  - —  of  a  real  kind :  but  she 
has  others  which  are  more  apt  to  make  women  of  inferior 
charms  hate  her.  She  is  not  a  Cleopatra,  but  she  is  at 
least  a  Charmian.  She  has  a  rich  Eastern  look;  she 
has  fine  eyes  and  fine  manners.  When  she  comes  into 
a  room  she  makes  an  impression  the  same  as  the  Beauty 
of  a  Leopardess.  She  is  too  fine  and  too  conscious  of 
herself  to  repulse  any  Man  who  may  address  her  —  from 
habit  she  thinks  that  nothing  particular.  I  always  find 
myself  more  at  ease  with  such  a  woman ;  the  picture 
before  me  always  gives  me  a  life  and  animation  which 
I  cannot  possibly  feel  with  anything  inferior.  I  am  at 
such  times  too  much  occupied  in  admiring  to  be  awkward 
or  on  a  tremble.  I  forget  myself  entirely  because  I 
live  in  her.  You  will  by  this  time  think  I  am  in  love 
with  her;  so  before  I  go  any  further  I  will  tell  you  I 
am  not  —  she  kept  me  awake  one  Night  as  a  tune  of 
Mozart's  might  do.  I  speak  of  the  thing  as  a  pastime 
and  an  amusement  than  which  I  can  feel  none  deeper 
than  a  conversation  with  an  imperial  woman  the  very 
"yes"  and  "no"  of  whose  lips  is  to  me  a  Banquet.  I 
don't  cry  to  take  the  Moon  home  with  me  in  my  Pocket 
nor  do  I  fret  to  leave  her  behind  me.  I  like  her  and  her 
like  because  one  has  no  sensations  —  what  we  both  are  is 
taken  for  granted.  You  will  suppose  I  have  by  this  had 
much  talk  with  her  —  no  such  thing — there  are.  the  Miss 
148 


A  Special  Trio 

Reynoldses  on  the  look  out.  They  think  I  don't  admire 
her  because  I  did  not  stare  at  her.  They  call  her  a  flirt 
to  me.  What  a  want  of  knowledge  !  She  walks  across  a 
room  in  such  a  Manner  that  a  Man  is  drawn  towards  her 
with  a  magnetic  Power.  This  they  call  flirting  !  they 
do  not  know  things.  They  do  not  know  what  a  Woman 
is.  I  believe,  tho',  she  has  faults  —  the  same  as  Charmian 
and  Cleopatra  might  have  had.  Yet  she  is  a  fine  thing, 
speaking  in  a  worldly  way:  for  there  are  two  distinct 
tempers  of  mind  in  which  we  judge  of  things — the 
worldly,  theatrical  and  pantomimical  ;  and  the  unearthly, 
spiritual  and  ethereal  —  in  the  former,  Buonaparte,  Lord 
Byron,  and  this  Charmian  hold  the  first  place  in  our 
Minds;  in  the  latter,  John  Howard,  Bishop  Horner 
rocking  his  child's  cradle,  and  you,  my  dear  Sister,  are 
the  conquering  feelings.  As  a  Man  in  the  world  I  love 
the  rich  talk  of  a  Charmian ;  as  an  Eternal  Being  I  love 
the  thought  of  you.  I  should  like  her  to  ruin  me,  and  I 
should  like  you  to  save  me. 

John  Keats 


149 


XIII 
GOOD   COMPANY 

The  Prioress       ^>       <^y       ^>       ^>       ^>       -< 

r  I  ^HER  was  also  a  Noune,  a  Prioresse, 
•*-      That  of  hire  smylyng  was  ful  symple  and  coy ; 
Hire  grettest  ooth  nas  but  by  seynt  Loy ; 
And  sche  was  cleped  Madame  Eglentyne. 
Ful  wel  sche  sang  the  servise  divyne, 
Entuned  in  hire  nose  ful  seme'ly ; 
And  Frensch  she  spak  ful  faire  and  fetysly, 
After  the  scole  of  Stratford  atte  Bowe, 
For  Frensch  of  Parys  was  to  hire  unknonne. 
At  mete  wel  i-taught  was  sche  withalle, 
Sche  leet  no  morsel  from  her  lippe's  falle, 
Ne  wette  hire  fyngres  in  hire  sauce  deepe. 
Wel  cowde  sche  carie  a  morsel  and  wel  keepe, 
That  no  drope  ne  fille  upon  hire  breste. 
In  curteisie  was  set  ful  moche  hire  leste. 
Hire  over  lippe  wypede  sche  so  clene, 
That  in  hire  cuppe  was  no  ferthing  sene 
Of  grece,  whan  sche  dronken  hadde  hire  draughte. 
Ful  seme'ly  after  hir  mete  sche  raughte, 
And  sikerly  sche  was  of  gret  disport, 
And  ful  plesaunt,  and  amyable  of  port, 
150 


Good  Company 

And  peynede  hir  to  countrefete  cheere 

Of  Court,  and  ben  estatlich  of  manere, 

And  to  ben  holden  digne  of  reverance. 

But  for  to  speken  of  hir  conscience, 

Sche  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitous, 

Sche  wolde  weepe  if  that  sche  saw  a  mous 

Caught  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  deed  or  bledde. 

Of  smale  houndes  hadde  sche,  that  sche  fedde 

With  rosted  flessh  and  mylk  and  wastel  breed. 

But  sore  weep  sche  if  oon  of  hem  were  deed, 

Or  if  men  smot  it,  with  a  yerde  smerte ; 

And  al  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte. 

Ful  semely  hire  wympel  i-pynched  was ; 

Hir  nose  streight,  her  eyen  greye  as  glas ; 

Hir  mouth  ful  smal,  and  thereto  softe  and  reed, 

But  sikerly  sche  hadde  a  fair  forheed. 

It  was  almost  a  spanne  brood,  I  trowe ; 

For  hardily  sche  was  not  undergrowe. 

Ful  fetys  was  hir  cloke,  as  I  was  war. 

Of  small  coral  aboute  hir  arm  sche  bar 

A  peire  of  bedes  gauded  al  with  grene  ; 

And  thereon  heng  a  broch  of  gold  ful  schene, 

On  which  was  first  i-writen  a  crowned  A, 

And  after,  Amor  vincit  omnia. 

Chaucer 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

Hester  Johnson          ^o>        <^        <^>        *o        -^ 

STELLA  this  day  is  thirty-four, 
(We  sh'an't  dispute  a  year  or  more  :) 
However,  Stella,  be  not  troubled, 
Although  thy  size  and  years  are  doubled 
Since  first  I  saw  thee  at  sixteen, 
The  brightest  virgin  on  the  green ; 
So  little  is  thy  form  declined ; 
Made  up  so  largely  in  thy  mind. 

O,  would  it  please  the  gods  to  split 
Thy  beauty,  size,  and  years,  and  wit ! 
No  age  could  furnish  out  a  pair 
Of  nymphs  so  graceful,  wise  and  fair ; 
With  half  the  lustre  of  your  eyes, 
With  half  your  wit,  your  years,  and  size. 
And  then,  before  it  grew  too  late, 
How  should  I  beg  of  gentle  fate, 
(That  either  nymph  might  have  her  swain,) 
To  split  my  worship  too  in  twain. 

Dean  Swift 

Mrs.  Dingley        <^y      ^v>       *^y       <^       ^^       *c 

THIS  day,  dear  Bee,  is  thy  nativity ; 
Had  Fate  a  luckier  one,  she'd  give  it  ye. 
She  chose  a  thread  of  greatest  length, 
And  doubly  twisted  it  for  strength  : 
Nor  will  be  able  with  her  shears 
To  cut  it  off  these  forty  years. 
Then  who  says  care  will  kill  a  cat? 
Rebecca  shews  they're  out  in  that. 
For  she,  though  overrun  with  care, 
Continues  healthy,  fat,  ajid  fair. 
152 


Good  Company 

As,  if  the  gout  should  seize  the  head, 
Doctors  pronounce  the  patient  dead  ; 
But,  if  they  can,  by  all  their  arts, 
Eject  it  to  the  extremest  parts, 
They  give  the  sick  man  joy,  and  praise 
The  gout  that  will  prolong  his  days. 
Rebecca  thus  I  gladly  greet, 
Who  drives  her  cares  to  hands  and  feet : 
For,  though  philosophers  maintain 
The  limbs  are  guided  by  the  brain, 
Quite  contrary  Rebecca's  led  ; 
Her  hands  and  feet  conduct  her  head  ; 
By  arbitrary  power  convey  her, 
She  ne'er  considers  why  or  where  : 
Her  hands  may  meddle,  feet  may  wander, 
Her  head  is  but  a  mere  by-stander  : 
And  all  her  bustling  but  supplies 
The  part  of  wholesome  exercise. 
Thus  nature  has  resolved  to  pay  her 
The  cat's  nine  lives,  and  eke  the  care. 

Long  may  she  live,  and  help  her  friends 
Whene'er  it  suits  her  private  ends  ; 
Domestic  business  never  mind 
Till  coffee  has  her  stomach  lined ; 
But,  when  her  breakfast  gives  her  courage, 
Then  think  on  Stella's  chicken  porridge: 
I  mean  when  Tiger  1  has  been  served, 
Or  else  poor  Stella  may  be  starved. 

May  Bee  have  many  an  evening  nap, 
With  Tiger  slabbering  in  her  lap  ; 
But  always  take  a  special  care 
She  does  not  overset  the  chair  ; 

1  Mrs.  Dingley's  favourite  lap-dog. 

'53 


The   Ladies'   Pageant 

Still  be  she  curious,  never  hearken 
To  any  speech  but  Tiger's  barking  ! 

And  when  she's  in  another  scene, 
Stella  long  dead,  but  first  the  Dean, 
May  fortune  and  her  coffee  get  her 
Companions  that  will  please  her  better  ! 
Whole  afternoons  will  sit  beside  her, 
Nor  for  neglects  or  blunders  chide  her. 
A  goodly  set  as  can  be  found 
Of  hearty  gossips  prating  round  ; 
Fresh  from  a  wedding  or  a  christening, 
To  teach  her  ears  the  art  of  listening, 
And  please  her  more  to  hear  them  tattle, 
Than  the  Dean  storm,  or  Stella  rattle. 

Late  be  her  death,  one  gentle  nod, 
When  Hermes,  waiting  with  his  rod, 
Shall  to  Elysian  fields  invite  her, 
Where  there  will  be  no  cares  to  fright  her! 

Dean  Swift 

Belinda         ^>         -o        ^>        ^^         ^>        -^ 

NOT  with  more  glories,  in  th'  ethereal  plain, 
The  sun  first  rises  o'er  the  purpled  main, 
Than,  issuing  forth,  the  rival  of  his  brains 
Launch'd  on  the  bosom  of  the  silver  Thames. 
Fair  nymphs,  and  well-dressed  youths  around  her  shone, 
But  every  eye  was  fix'd  on  her  alone. 
On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore, 
Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  infidels  adore. 
Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose, 
Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfix'd  as  those  : 
Favours  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends ; 
Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 
'54 


Good  Company 


Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike, 
And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 
Yet  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of  pride, 
Might  hide  her  fault,  if  belles  had  faults  to  hide : 
If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall 
Look  on  her  face,  and  you'll  forget  them  all. 

A.  Pope 


The  Berrys 


I  AM  indeed  much  obliged  for  the  transcript  of  the 
letter  on  my  "  Wives."  Miss  Agnes  has  a  finesse 
in  her  eyes  and  countenance  that  does  not  propose  itself 
to  you,  but  is  very  engaging  on  observation,  and  has 
often  made  herself  preferred  to  her  sister,  who  has  the 
most  exactly  fine  features,  and  only  wants  colour  to  make 
her  face  as  perfect  as  her  graceful  person ;  indeed 
neither  has  good  health  nor  the  air  of  it.  Miss  Mary's 
eyes  are  grave,  but  she  is  not  so  herself;  and,  having 
much  more  application  than  her  sister,  she  converses 
readily,  and  with  great  intelligence,  on  all  subjects. 
Agnes  is  more  reserved,  but  her  compact  sense  very 
striking,  and  always  to  the  purpose.  In  short,  they 
are  extraordinary  beings,  and  I  am  proud  of  my  par- 
tiality for  them ;  and  since  the  ridicule  can  only  fall  on 
me,  and  not  on  them,  I  care  not  a  straw  for  its  being 
said  that  I  am  in  love  with  one  of  them  —  people  shall 
choose  which  :  it  is  as  much  with  both  as  either,  and  I  am 
infinitely  too  old  to  regard  the  qu^en  dit  on. 


'55 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

II 

CONSIDER,  that  I  have  been  threescore  years  and 
> —  ten  looking  for  a  society  that  I  perfectly  like : 
and  at  last  there  dropped  out  of  the  clouds  into  Lady 
Herries's  room  two  young  gentlewomen,  who  I  so  little 
thought  were  sent  thither  on  purpose  for  me,  that  when 
I  was  told  they  were  the  charming  Miss  Berrys,  I  would 
not  even  go  to  the  side  of  the  chamber  where  they  sat. 
But,  as  Fortune  never  throws  anything  at  one's  head 
without  hitting  one,  I  soon  found  that  the  charming 
Berrys  were  precisely  ce  qifil  me  fallait  •  and  that 
though  young  enough  to  be  my  great-grand-daughters, 
lovely  enough  to  turn  the  heads  of  all  our  youths,  and 
sensible  enough,  if  said  youths  have  any  brains,  to  set  all 
their  heads  to  rights  again. 

Horace  Walpole 


Margaret  Fordyce     *o        <^>        <^        -o 

BUT,  hark !  —  did  not  our  bard  repeat 
The  love-born  name  of  M — a — g — r —  ?  • 
Attention  seizes  every  ear ; 
We  pant  for  the  description  here : 
If  ever  dulness  left  thy  brow, 
"  Pindar"  we  say,  "  'twill  leave  thee  now." 
But  oh  !  old  Dulness1  son  anointed 
His  mother  never  disappointed!  — 
And  here  we  all  were  left  to  seek 
A  dimple  in  F — rd — ce's  cheek  ! 

And  could  you  really  discover, 
In  gazing  those  sweet  beauties  over, 
No  other  charm,  no  winning  grace, 
Adorning  either  mind  or  face, 
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But  one  poor  dimple,  to  express 
The  quaintessence  of  loveliness"! 
.  .  .  Mark'd  you  her  cheek  of  rosy  hue  ? 
Mark'd  you  her  eye  of  sparkling  blue  ? 
That  eye,  in  liquid  circles  moving ; 
That  cheek  abash'd  at  Man's  approving. 
The  one,  Love's  arrows  darting  round ; 
The  other,  blushing  at  the  wound  : 
Did  she  not  speak,  did  she  not  move, 
Now  Pallas  —  now  the  Queen  of  Love  ! 

We  see  the  Dame,  in  rustic  pride, 
A  bunch  of  keys  to  grace  her  side, 
Stalking  across  the  well-swept  entry, 
To  hold  her  council  in  the  pantry, 
Or,  with  prophetic  soul,  foretelling 
The  peas  will  boil  well  by  the  shelling ; 
Or,  bustling  in  her  private  closet, 
Prepare  her  lord  his  morning  posset ; 
And  while  the  hallow'd  mixture  thickens, 
Signing  death-warrants  for  the  chickens  ; 
Else,  greatly  pensive,  poring  o'er 
Accounts  her  cook  hath  thumbed  before  ; 
One  eye  cast  up  upon  that  great  book, 
Yclep'd  The  Family  Receipt  Book  ; 
By  which  she's  rul'd  in  all  her  courses, 
From  stewing  figs  to  drenching  horses. 
—  Then  pans  and  pickling  skillets  rise, 
In  dreadful  lustre,  to  our  eyes, 
With  store  of  sweetmeats,  rang'd  in  order , 
And  potted  nothings  on  the  border; 
While  salves  and  candle-cups  between, 
With  squalling  children,  close  the  scene. 

'57 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

O  !  should  your  genius  ever  rise, 
And  make  you  Laureate  in  the  skies, 
Td  hold  my  life,  in  twenty  years, 
You'd  spoil  the  music  of  the  spheres. 

—  Nay,  should  the  rapture-breathing  Nine 
In  one  celestial  concert  join, 

Their  sovereign's  power  to  rehearse, 

—  Were  you  to  furnish  men  with  verse, 
By  Jove,  I'd  fly  the  heavenly  throng, 
Tho'  Phoebus  play'd  and  Linley  sung. 

R.  B.  Sheridan 

Miss  Waldron      <^y       ^y       x^>       -Qy       <^>       ^> 

A  NOTHER  of  the  sisterhood  was  Miss  Waldron, 
•**•  late  of  Tamworth,  —  dear,  good-humoured,  hearty, 
masculine  Miss  Waldron,  who  could  sing  a  jovial  song 
like  a  fox-hunter,  and  like  him  I  had  almost  said  toss  a 
glass;  and  yet  was  there  such  an  air  of  high  ton,  and 
such  intellect  mingled  with  these  manners,  that  the 
perfect  lady  was  not  veiled  for  a  moment,  —  no,  not  when, 
with  a  face  rosy  red,  and  an  eye  beaming  with  mirth, 
she  would  seize  a  cup  and  sing  "  Toby  Fillpot,"  glorying 
as  it  were  in  her  own  jollity.  When  we  took  our 
morning  rides,  she  generally  drove  my  father  in  her 
phaeton,  and  interested  him  exceedingly  by  her  strong 
understanding  and  conversational  powers. 

George  Crabbe  the  Younger 

Lady  Ashburton  o       *c^       ^>       *^>       *^ 

LADY  ASHBURTON    was   perhaps,    on  the  whole, 
the  most  conspicuous  woman  in  the  society  of  the 
present    day.      She    was    undoubtedly    very    intelligent, 
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with  much  quickness  and  vivacity  in  conversation,  and 
by  dint  of  a  good  deal  of  desultory  reading  and  social 
intercourse  with  men  more  or  less  distinguished,  she  had 
improved  her  mind,  and  made  herself  a  very  agreeable 
woman,  and  had  acquired  no  small  reputation  for  ability 
and  wit.  It  is  never  difficult  for  a  woman  in  a  great 
position  and  with  some  talent  for  conversation  to  attract 
a  large  society  around  her,  and  to  have  a  number  of 
admirers  and  devoted  habitues.  Lady  Ashburton  laid 
herself  out  for  this,  and  while  she  exercised  hospitality 
on  a  great  scale,  she  was  more  of  a  prkcieuse  than  any 
woman  I  have  known.  She  was,  or  affected  to  be, 
extremely  intimate  with  many  men  whose  literary 
celebrity  or  talents  constituted  their  only  attraction,  and 
while  they  were  gratified  by  the  attentions  of  the  great 
lady,  her  vanity  was  flattered  by  the  homage  of  such 
men,  of  whom  Carlyle  was  the  principal.  It  is  only 
justice  to  her  to  say  that  she  treated  her  literary  friends 
with  constant  kindness  and  the  most  unselfish  attentions. 
They,  their  wives  and  children  (when  they  had  any), 
were  received  at  her  house  in  the  country,  and  enter- 
tained there  for  weeks  without  any  airs  of  patronage, 
and  with  a  spirit  of  genuine  benevolence  as  well  as 
hospitality.  She  was  in  her  youth  tall  and  commanding 
in  person,  but  without  any  pretension  to  good  looks ; 
still  she  was  not  altogether  destitute  of  sentiment  and 
coquetry,  or  incapable  of  both  feeling  and  inspiring  a 
certain  amount  of  passion.  The  only  man  with  whom 
she  was  ever  what  could  be  called  in  love  was  Clarendon, 
and  that  feeling  was  never  entirely  extinct,  and  the 
recollection  of  it  kept  up  a  sort  of  undefined  relation 
between  them  to  the  end  of  her  life.  Two  men  were 
certainly  in  love  with  her,  both  distinguished  in  different 
ways.  One  was  John  Mill,  who  was  sentimentally 
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The  Ladies'   Pageant 

attached  to  her,  and  for  a  long  time  was  devoted  to  her 
society.  She  was  pleased  and  flattered  by  his  c'evotion, 
but  as  she  did  not  in  the  slightest  degree  return  his 
passion,  though  she  admired  his  abilities,  he  at  last 
came  to  resent  her  indifference,  and  ended  by  estranging 
himself  from  her  entirely,  and  proved  the  strength  of 
his  feeling  by  his  obstinate  refusal  to  continue  even  his 
acquaintance  with  her.  Her  other  admirer  was  Charles 
Buller,  with  whom  she  was  extremely  intimate,  but 
without  ever  reciprocating  his  love.  Curiously  enough, 
they  were  very  like  each  other  in  person,  as  well  as  in 
their  mental  accomplishments.  They  had  both  the 
same  spirits  and  cleverness  in  conversation,  and  the 
same  quickness  and  drollery  in  repartee.  I  remember 
Allen  well  describing  them,  when  he  said  that  their  talk 
was  like  that  in  the  polite  conversation  between  Never 
Out  and  Miss  Notable.  Her  faults  appeared  to  be 
caprice  and  a  disposition  to  quarrels  and  tracasseries 
about  nothing,  which,  however  common  amongst  ordinary 
women,  were  unworthy  of  her  superior  understanding. 
But  during  her  last  illness  all  that  was  bad  and  hard  in 
her  nature  seemed  to  be  improved  and  softened,  and 
she  became  full  of  charity,  good-will,  and  the  milk  of 
human  kindness. 

Charles  Greville 


Lady  Ashburton's  Sayings      ^v        <^        <2y        *Sx 

HOW  fortunate  that  I  am  not  married  to  King  Leopold ! 
He  said  to  his  French  wife,  "  Pas  de propos  tigers" 
I  suppose  he   meant  "  No  jokes."     Now    I    like    nothing 
else  —  I  should  wish  to  be  accountable  for  nothing  I  said, 
and  to  contradict  myself  every  minute. 

It  is  dreadful    for  me  to  have  no  domestic  duties,  I 
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Good  Company 

always  envy  the  German  women.  I  am  a  "  cuisiniere 
incomprise." 

I  always  feel  a  kind  of  average  between  myself  and 
any  other  person  I  am  taking  with  —  between  us  two,  I 
mean :  so  that  when  I  am  talking  to  Spedding  —  I  am 
unutterably  foolish  —  beyond  permission. 

I  like  you  to  say  the  civil  things,  and  then  I  can  do 
the  contrary. 

In  one's  youth  one  doubts  whether  one  has  a  body, 
and  when  one  gets  old  whether  one  has  a  soul ;  but  the 
body  asserts  itself  so  much  the  stronger  of  the  two. 

I  have  not  only  never  written  a  book,  but  I  know  nobody 
whose  book  I  should  like  to  have  written. 

I  remember  when  a  child  telling  everybody  I  was 
present  at  mamma's  marriage.  I  was  whipped  for  it, 
but  I  believed  it  all  the  same. 

When  I  am  with  High-Church  people,  my  opposition 
to  them  makes  me  feel  no  church  at  all  —  hardly  bare 
walls  with  doors  and  windows. 

I  forget  everything,  except  injuries. 

I  should  like  exactly  to  know  the  difference  between 
money  and  morality. 

I  have  no  objection  to  the  canvas  of  a  man's  mind 
being  good  if  it  is  entirely  hidden  under  the  worsted  and 
floss,  and  so  on. 

Public  men  in  England  are  so  fenced  in  by  the 
cactus-hedge  of  petty  conventionality  which  they  call 
practical  life,  that  everything  good  and  humane  is 
invisible  to  them.  Add  to  this  the  absence  of  humour, 
and  you  see  all  their  wretchedness.  I  have  never  known 
but  two  men  above  this  —  Buller  and  Peel. 

A  bore  cannot  be  a  good  man :  for  the  better  a  man 
is,  the  greater  bore  he  will  be,  and  the  more  hateful  he 
will  make  goodness. 

M  l6t 


The   Ladies'   Pageant 

I  am  sure  you  find  nine  persons  out  of  ten,  what  at 
first  you  assume  them  to  be. 

When  one  sees  what  marriage  generally  is,  I  quite 
wonder  that  women  do  not  give  up  the  profession. 

Your  notion  of  a  wife  is  evidently  a  Strasbourg  goose 
whom  you  will  always  find  by  the  fireside  when  you 
come  home  from  amusing  yourself. 

Of  course  there  will  be  slavery  in  the  world  as  long  as 
there  is  a  black  and  a  white  —  a  man  and  a  woman. 

I  am  strongly  in  favour  of  Polygamy.  I  should  like 
to  go  out,  and  the  other  wife  to  stay  at  home  and  take 
care  of  things,  and  hear  all  I  had  to  tell  her  when  I 
came  back. 

looks  all  a  woman  wants  —  strength  and  cruelty. 

The  most  dreadful  thing  against  women  is  the  character 
of  the  men  that  praise  them. 

I  like  men  to  be  men;  you  cannot  get  round  them 
without. 

Friendship  has  no  doubt  great  advantages;  you  know 
a  man  so  much  better  and  can  laugh  at  him  so  much 
more. 

If  I  were  to  begin  life  again,  I  would  go  on  the  turf, 
merely  to  get  friends :  they  seem  to  me  the  only  people 
who  really  hold  close  together.  I  don't  know  why : 
it  may  be  that  each  man  knows  something  that  might 
hang  the  other;  but  the  effect  is  delightful  and  most 
peculiar. 

I  never  want  friends  if  I  have  sun  —  or  at  most  one  who 
does  not  speak. 

To  have  a  really  agreeable  house,  you  must  be 
divorced ;  you  would  then  have  the  pleasantest  men, 
and  no  women  but  those  who  are  really  affectionate  and 
interested  about  you,  and  who  are  kept  in  continual 
good-humour  by  the  consciousness  of  a  benevolent 
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patronage.     I  often  think  of  divorcing  myself  from  B.  B. 
and  marrying  him  again. 

There  is  no  rebound  about  her :  it  is  like  talking  into 
a  soft  surface. 

English  society  is  destroyed  by  domestic  life  out  of 
place.  You  meet  eight  people  at  dinner  —  four  couples, 
each  of  whom  sees  as  much  as  they  wish  of  one  another 
elsewhere,  and  each  member  of  which  is  embarrassed 
and  afraid  in  the  other's  presence. 

Lord  Houghton 

Staff  Nurse :  Old  Style  o       ^>       <^y       ^ 

'"pHE  greater  masters  of  the  commonplace, 
J-      REMBRANDT  and  good  SIR  WALTER  —  only  these 
Could  paint  her  all  to  you :  experienced  ease, 
And  antique  liveliness,  and  ponderous  grace  ; 
The  sweet  old  roses  of  her  sunken  face  ; 
The  depth  and  malice  of  her  sly  gray  eyes  ; 
The  broad  Scots  tongue  that  flatters,  scolds,  defies ; 
The  thick  Scots  wit  that  fells  you  like  a  mace. 
These  thirty  years  she  has  been  nursing  here, 
Some  of  them  under  SYME,  her  hero  still. 
Much  is  she  worth,  and  even  more  is  made  of  her. 
Patients  and  students  hold  her  very  dear. 
The  doctors  love  her,  tease  her,  use  her  skill. 
They  say  "The  Chief"  himself  is  half-afraid  of  her. 

W.  E.  Henley 

Staff  Nurse :  New  Style  <^       -cy       ^y       <^y 

BLUE-EYED  and  bright  of  face,  but  waning  fast 
Into  the  sere  of  virginal  decay, 
I  view  her  as  she  enters,  day  by  day, 
As  a  sweet  sunset  almost  overpast. 
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Kindly  and  calm,  patrician  to  the  last, 

Superbly  falls  her  gown  of  sober  gray, 

And  on  her  chignon's  elegant  array 

The  plainest  cap  is  somehow  touched  with  caste. 

She  talks  BEETHOVEN,  frowns  disapprobation 

At  BALZAC'S  name,  sighs  it  at  "  poor  GEORGE  SAND'S  "  ; 

Knows  that  she  has  exceeding  pretty  hands ; 

Speaks  Latin  with  a  right  accentuation  ; 

And  gives  at  need  (as  one  who  understands) 

Draught,  counsel,  diagnosis,  exhortation. 

W.  E.  Henley 


Mrs.  Grote        -^       <^y       ^y        *o        ^>       ^y 

MRS.  GROTE,  wife  of  George  Grote,  the  banker, 
member  of  Parliament,  and  historian  of  Greece, 
was  one  of  the  cleverest  and  most  eccentric  women  in 
the  London  Society  of  my  time.  No  worse  a  judge 
than  De  Tocqueville  pronounced  her  the  cleverest 
woman  of  his  acquaintance ;  and  she  was  certainly  a 
very  remarkable  member  of  the  circle  of  remarkable 
men  among  whom  she  was  living,  when  I  first  knew 
her.  At  that  time  she  was  the  female  centre  of  the 
Radical  party  in  politics  —  a  sort  of  not-young-or-hand- 
some  feminine  oracle,  among  a  set  of  very  clever  half- 
heathenish  men,  in  whose  drawing-room,  Sydney  Smith 
used  to  say,  he  always  expected  to  find  an  altar  to 
Zeus.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Crete's  appearance  was  extremely  singular; 
"striking"  is,  I  think,  the  most  appropriate  word  for  it. 
She  was  very  tall,  square-built,  and  high-shouldered, 
her  hands  and  arms,  feet  and  legs  (the  latter  she  was 
by  no  means  averse  to  displaying),  were  uncommonly 
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handsome  and  well  made.  Her  face  was  rather  that 
of  a  clever  man  than  a  woman,  and  I  used  to  think 
there  was  some  resemblance  between  herself  and  our 
piratical  friend,  Trelawney. 

Her  familiar  style  of  language  among  her  intimates 
was  something  that  could  only  be  believed  by  those  who 
heard  it ;  it  was  technical  to  a  degree  that  was  amazing. 
But  little  usual  as  her  modes  of  expression  were,  she 
never  seemed  to  be  in  the  slightest  degree  aware  of 
the  startling  effect  they  produced;  she  uttered  them 
with  the  most  straightforward  unconsciousness  and  un- 
concern. 

Her  taste  in  dress  was,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
slightly  eccentric,  but,  for  a  person  with  so  discordant 
colours  was  singular.  The  first  time  I  ever  saw  her 
she  was  dressed  in  a  bright  brimstone-coloured  silk 
gown,  made  so  short  as  to  show  her  feet  and  ankles, 
having  on  her  head  a  white  satin  hat,  with  a  forest  of 
white  feathers ;  and  I  remember  her  standing,  with  her 
feet  wide  apart  and  her  arms  akimbo,  in  this  costume 
before  me,  and  challenging  me  upon  some  political 
question  by  which,  and  her  appearance,  I  was  much 
astonished  and  a  little  frightened.  One  evening  she 
came  to  my  sister's  house  dressed  entirely  in  black,  but 
with  scarlet  shoes  on,  with  which  I  suppose  she  was  par- 
ticularly pleased,  for  she  lay  on  a  sofa  with  her  feet 
higher  than  her  head,  American  fashion,  the  better  to 
display  or  contemplate  them.  I  remember,  at  a  party, 
being  seated  by  Sydney  Smith,  when  Mrs.  Grote  entered 
with  a  rose-coloured  turban  on  her  head,  at  which  he 
suddenly  exclaimed,  "Now  I  know  the  meaning  of  the 
word  grotesque ! " 

The  mischievous  wit  professed  his  cordial  liking  for 
both  her  and  her  husband,  saying,  "  I  like  them,  I  like 
165 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

them ;  I  like  him,  he  is  so  ladylike ;  and  I  like  her,  she's 
such  a  perfect  gentleman." 

Fanny  Kemble 


Mrs.  Procter       *^x       <^y       *o       *o       ^>       <iy 

STEP-DAUGHTER  of  Basil  Montagu,  the  most  ac- 
complished editor  of  Bacon  prior  to  Mr.  Spedding ; 
widow  of  Barry  Cornwall  the  poet,  the  intimate  friend 
and  the  biographer  of  Charles  Lamb  ;  mother  of  Adelaide 
Procter  the  poetess,  the  ornament  of  anthologies  when 
anthologies  are  not,  as  we  may  say,  pedantic;  friend  of 
a  hundred  eminent  men  and  perpetuator,  for  our  age, 
of  the  tone  of  an  age  not  ours,  she  requires,  no  doubt, 
some  introduction  to  a  mistimed  generation.  Introduc- 
tions of  Mrs.  Procter,  however,  are  difficult ;  they  were 
in  her  lifetime  all  but  impossible;  they  assumed 
ignorances  on  the  part  of  others,  just  as  they  assumed 
preoccupations  on  her  own,  that  were,  on  the  whole, 
less  of  a  nature  to  clear  the  air  than  of  a  nature  to 
cloud  it. 

For  the  present  perhaps  too  easily  and  too  variously 
solicited  chronicler  she  had  at  all  events,  as  an  admir- 
able friend,  during  her  latest  years,  a  value  that  he 
always  qualified,  to  himself,  as  historic;  and  not  at  all, 
moreover,  in  the  comparatively  superficial  sense  of  her 
associations  and  accretions,  her  extraordinary  names 
and  dates,  her  long  backward  span  and  her  persistent 
presence,  but  in  the  finer  one  of  her  being  such  a  char- 
acter, such  a  figure,  as  the  generations  appear  pretty 
well  to  have  ceased  to  produce,  quite  as  if  the  technical 
secret  of  the  "paste,"  like  that  of  some  old  fabric  or 
mixture,  had  been  lost  to  them.  "  There  are  no  more 
1 66 


Good  Company 

made" that   might  well  be  the  answer  given  across 

the  social  counter  to  an  inquirer  curious  of  reasons.  It 
was  her  tone  that  was  her  value  and  her  identity,  and 
that  kept  her  from  being  feebly  modern ;  her  sharpness 
of  outline  was  in  that  in  the  absence  there  of  the  little 
modern  mercies,  muddlements,  confusions  and  com- 
promises. English  to  the  core  and  thoroughly  of  her 
class,  of  her  social  affiliation,  infinitely  humorous  and 
human,  with  perfect  distinctness  of  wit  and  dauntlessness 
of  opinion,  a  partisan  to  her  last  breath  (which  meant, 
on  her  part,  an  admirable  constancy  of  favour  and  of 
its  opposite),  she  testified  somehow  to  a  stouter  and 
harder  world  than  ours,  an  order  more  decreed  and 
accepted,  one  in  which  the  temper  had  had  more  at 
once  to  give  and  more  to  take,  more  to  reckon  with, 
but  also  more,  within  its  rights,  to  maintain.  Mrs. 
Procter's  rights  were,  to  take  her  own  view,  of  the 
sharpest,  but  they  included,  delightfully,  the  right  to 
be,  however  inconsequently  (if  that  was  the  only  way), 
pleased;  which  she  employed  with  the  finest  effect.  I 
remember  her  once  telling  me,  in  answer  to  some 
question,  after  Dowden's  Life  of  Shelley  had  come  out, 
that  she  recalled,  from  her  girlhood,  an  occasion  on  which 
Leigh  Hunt  had  said,  in  her  father's  house,  that  he 
was  going  up  to  Hampstead  to  see  what  Shelley's  "  new 
wife  was  like";  and  that  she  also  recalled  his  saying, 
on  her  asking  him,  at  the  next  opportunity,  for  news 
of  his  errand :  "  Oh,  she's  like  a  cross  baby."  This 
reminiscence,  I  further  recollect,  had  been  determined 
by  my  asking  her  if  she  had  known  Mrs.  Shelley  on  the 
latter's  return  to  England.  "  Oh  dear,  no  —  one  didtft 
know  her ;  she  wasn't  received " :  that  was  a  picture,  I 
recall,  precious  for  the  old  tone.  But  it  was  on  my 
marvelling,  a  little  irreflectively,  at  the  antiquity  of  her 
167 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

having  had  such  an  acquaintance  at  her  command,  that 
she  had  said,  "  Oh,  that's  nothing  —  for  going  back,"  and 
then  had  gone  back  to  the  grey  eld  that  was  so  much 
anterior  to  Shelley's  death  and  a  fortiori  so  much  anterior 
to  Byron's.  I  retail  this  anecdote,  however,  precisely  to 
emphasise  my  point  that,  interesting  as  her  anecdotes 
might  be,  her  attitude  and  her  spirit  (facts  quite  as 
definite,  and  certainly  quite  as  "  quaint "  as  her  anec- 
dotes) were  things  more  interesting  still.  More  even 
than  the  anecdotes  they  seemed  to  make  a  light,  as  to 
the  social  world  which  had  been  not  as  ours,  on  the 
question  of  human  relations.  If  one  arrived  at  something 
of  a  sense  of  such  relations  one  sniffed  up  the  essence 
of  history  —  to  which  in  the  absence  of  that  sense  one 
remained  blackly  a  stranger.  And  it  glimmered  before 
one  as  something  the  precious  possession  of  which 
might  bring  one  nearer  to  the  ancient  reality.  Without 
it  one  was,  at  any  rate  in  respect  to  any  reproductive 
grasp  of  the  ancient  reality,  a  "  muff."  All  this,  however, 
is  a  far  cry  from  the  fleeting  vision  vouchsafed  to  our 
friends  in  the  summer  of  1850  —  albeit,  at  the  same  time, 
that  connections  are  not  wanting.  There  was,  for 
instance,  no  more  "regular"  friend  of  the  trenchant 
lady's  final  period  than  Robert  Browning,  who  was  also, 
with  a  deeper  shade  of  intimacy,  an  ally  (as  we  have 
seen  him  already  begin  to  be)  of  the  Storys.  She  was, 
in  addition,  thoroughly  well-affected  to  Lowell,  who  was 
equally  so  to  her;  and  these  facts  would  have  in  some 
degree  constituted  a  relation  with  her,  her  friends  not 
being  non-conductors,  for  others,  so  to  speak,  of  her 
relation  to  them.  This  last  truth,  I  may  perhaps  add, 
is  lighted  for  me,  with  some  intensity,  by  my  own  last 
reminiscence :  a  grey,  wintry  day  and  the  company,  in 
a  mourning-coach,  during  slow  funereal  hours,  of 
168 


Good  Company 

Browning  and  Kinglake,  my  companions  of  the  pilgrim- 
age. That  was  an  occasion,  verily,  for  as  fine  an 
appreciation  of  shades  of  intimacy  as  one  might  have 
cared  to  attempt.  Browning  was  infinitely  talkative, 
and  Kinglake,  old,  deaf,  delicate,  distinguished,  perfect, 
infinitely  silent.  Mrs.  Procter,  whose  displeasure  he  had 
incurred,  had  not  spoken  to  him  for  a  quarter  of  a 

century.     She  was  magnificent. 

Henry  James 

From  "William  Wetmore  Story  and  His  Friends."     Copyright 
by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Company. 


Lady  Everingham        <^-        <^y       *^<        *^y        <ix 

LADY  EVERINGHAM  was  not  a  celebrated  beauty, 
but  she  was  something  infinitely  more  delightful, 
a  captivating  woman.  There  were  combined  in  her, 
qualities  not  commonly  met  together,  great  vivacity  of 
mind  with  great  grace  of  manner.  Her  words  sparkled 
and  her  movements  charmed.  There  was  indeed,  in  all 
she  said  and  did,  that  congruity  that  indicates  a  complete 
and  harmonious  organisation.  It  was  the  same  just  pro- 
portion which  characterised  her  form :  a  shape  slight 
and  undulating  with  grace ;  the  most  beautifully  shaped 
ear ;  a  small,  soft  hand ;  a  foot  that  would  have  fitted 
the  glass  slipper;  and  which,  by  the  bye,  she  lost  no 
opportunity  of  displaying ;  and  she  was  right,  for  it  was 
a  model. 

B.  Disraeli 


169 


XIV 
THE   GENTLE 

A  good  woman  is  an  understudy  for  an  angel. 

Tom  Taylor  (in  "  David  Garrick  ") 


Lady  Morton 


H 


E  first  deceased  ;  she  for  a  little  tried 

To  live  without  him,  liked  it  not,  and  died. 
Sir  Henry  Wotton 


Sister  Saint  Luke  ^>       *^>       ^>       *^>       ^y 

SHE  lived  shut  in  by  flowers  and  trees 
And  shade  of  gentle  bigotries. 
On  this  side  lay  the  trackless  sea, 
On  that  the  great  world's  mystery ; 
But  all  unseen  and  all  unguessed 
They  could  not  break  upon  her  rest. 
The  world's  far  splendours  gleamed  and  flashed, 
Afar  the  wild  seas  foamed  and  dashed  ; 
But  in  her  small,  dull  Paradise, 
Safe  housed  from  rapture  or  surprise, 
Nor  day  nor  night  had  power  to  fright 
The  peace  of  God  that  filled  her  eyes. 

John  Hay 

By  special  permission  of  Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  publishers 
of  Mr.  Hay's  poems. 

I/O 


The  Gentle 

Edith         "O          *Cy          *O          *^x          -<^>  -Qy 

(From  Ay  liner's  Field) 

FAIRER  than  Rachel  by  the  palmy  well, 
Fairer  than  Ruth  among  the  fields  of  corn, 
Fair  as  the  Angel  that  said  "  Hail!  "  she  seem'd, 
Who  entering  fill'd  the  house  with  sudden  light. 
For  so  mine  own  was  brighten'd  :  where  indeed 
The  roof  so  lowly  but  that  beam  of  Heaven 
Dawn'd  sometime  thro'  the  doorway?  whose  the 

babe 

Too  ragged  to  be  fondled  on  her  lap, 
Warned  at  her  bosom  ?     The  poor  child  of  shame 
The  common  care  whom  no  one  cared  for,  leapt 
To  greet  her,  wasting  his  forgotten  heart, 
As  with  the  mother  he  had  never  known, 
In  gambols  ;  for  her  fresh  and  innocent  eyes 
Had  such  a  star  of  morning  in  their  blue, 
That  all  neglected  places  of  the  field 
Broke  into  nature's  music  when  they  saw  her. 
Low  was  her  voice,  but  won  mysterious  way 
Thro'  the  seal'd  ear  to  which  a  louder  one 
Was  all  but  silence  —  free  of  alms  her  hand  — 
The  hand  that  robed  your  cottage-walls  with 

flowers 

Has  often  toil'd  to  clothe  your  little  ones  ; 
How  often  placed  upon  the  sick  man's  brow, 
Cool'd  it,  or  laid  his  feverous  pillow  smooth! 
Had  you  one  sorrow  and  she  shared  it  not? 
One  burthen  and  she  would  not  lighten  it? 
One  spiritual  doubt  she  did  not  sooth? 
Or  when  some  heat  of  difference  sparkled  out, 
How  sweetly  would  she  glide  between  your  wraths, 
171 


The  Ladies'  Pageant 

And  steal  you  from  each  other!  for  she  walk'd 
Wearing  the  light  yoke  of  that  Lord  of  love 
Who  still'd  the  rolling  wave  of  Galilee! 

Lord  Tennyson 


Madam  Liberality       "Qy        -^y        ^>        *^>        <^> 

MADAM  LIBERALITY  made  up  her  mind  about 
the  dresses  and  aprons ;  then  she  opened  her 
letter. 

It  announced  the  death  of  her  cousin,  her  god- 
mother's husband.  It  announced  also  that,  in  spite 
of  the  closest  search  for  a  will,  which  he  was  supposed 
to  have  made,  this  could  not  be  found.  .  .  . 

After  a  second  reading  Madam  Liberality  picked  up 
the  thread  of  the  narrative  and  arrived  at  the  result  — 
she  had  inherited  fifteen  thousand  a  year.  .  .  . 

Madam  Liberality  poked  the  fire  extravagantly,  and 
sat  down  to  think. 

The  curtains  naturally  led  her  to  household  questions, 
and  those  to  that  invaluable  person,  Jemima.  That 
Jemima's  wages  should  be  doubled,  trebled,  quadrupled, 
was  a  thing  of  course.  What  post  she  was  to  fill  in  the 
new  circumstances  was  another  matter.  Remembering 
Podmore,  and  recalling  the  fatigue  of  dressing  herself 
after  her  pretty  numerous  illnesses.  Madam  Liberality 
felt  that  a  lady's-maid  would  be  a  comfort  to  be  most 
thankful  for.  But  she  could  not  fancy  Jemima  in  that 
capacity,  or  as  a  housekeeper,  or  even  as  head  house- 
maid or  cook.  She  had  lived  for  years  with  Jemima 
herself,  but  she  could  not  fit  her  into  a  suitable  place 
in  the  servants'  hall. 

However,  with  fifteen  thousand  a  year,  Madam 
172 


The  Gentle 

Liberality  could  buy,  if  needful,  a  field,  and  build  a 
house,  and  put  Jemima  into  it  with  a  servant  to  wait  upon 
her.  The  really  important  question  was  about  her  new 
domestics.  Sixteen  servants  are  a  heavy  responsibility. 

Madam  Liberality  had  very  high  ideas  of  the  parental 
duties  involved  in  being  the  head  of  a  household.  She 
had  suffered — more  than  Jemima — over  Jemima's  lack 
of  scruple  as  to  telling  lies  for  good  purposes.  Now 
a  footman  is  a  young  man  who  has,  no  doubt,  his 
own  peculiar  temptations.  What  check  could  Madam 
Liberality  keep  upon  him?  Possibly  she  might  —  under 
the  strong  pressure  of  moral  responsibility  —  give  good 
general  advice  to  the  footman ;  but  the  idea  of  the 
butler  troubled  her. 

When  one  has  lived  alone  in  a  little  house  for  many 
years  one  gets  timid.  She  put  a  case  to  herself.  Say 
that  she  knew  the  butler  to  be  in  the  habit  of  stealing 
the  wine,  and  suspected  the  gardener  of  making  a  good 
income  by  the  best  of  the  wall  fruit,  would  she  have  the 
moral  courage  to  be  as  firm  with  these  important 
personages  as  if  she  had  caught  one  of  the  school- 
children picking  and  stealing  in  the  orchard?  And  if 
not,  would  not  family  prayers  be  a  mockery?  .  .  . 

There  remained,  however,  Madam  Liberality's  old 
consolation :  one  can  be  happy  in  the  happiness  of 
others.  There  were  nephews  and  nieces  to  be  provided 
for,  and  a  world  so  full  of  poor  and  struggling  folk  that 
fifteen  thousand  a  year  would  only  go  a  little  way.  It 
was,  perhaps,  useful  that  there  had  been  so  many  articles 
lately  in  the  papers  about  begging  letters,  and  imposters, 
and  the  evil  effects  of  the  indiscriminate  charity  of 
elderly  ladies ;  but  the  remembrance  of  them  made 
Madam  Liberality's  head  ache,  and  troubled  her  dreams 
that  night. 

173 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

It  was  well  that  the  next  day  was  Sunday.  Face  to 
face  with  those  greater  interests  common  to  the  rich 
and  the  poor,  the  living  and  the  dead,  Madam 
Liberality  grew  calmer  under  her  new  cares  and  pros- 
pects. It  did  not  need  that  brief  pause  by  her  mother's 
grave  to  remind  her  how  little  money  can  do  for  us ;  and 
the  sight  of  other  people  wholesomely  recalled  how 
much  it  can  effect.  Near  the  church  porch  she  was 
passed  by  the  wife  of  a  retired  chandler,  who  dressed 
in  very  fine  silks,  and  who  was  accustomed  to  eye 
Madam  Liberality's  old  clothes  as  she  bowed  to  her 
more  obviously  than  is  consistent  with  good  breeding. 
The  little  lady  nodded  very  kindly  in  return.  With 
fifteen  thousand  a  year  one  can  afford  to  be  quite  at  ease 
in  an  old  shawl. 

The  next  day  was  Christmas  Eve.  Madam  Liberality 
caught  herself  thinking  that  if  the  legacy  had  been 
smaller  —  say  fifty  pounds  a  year  -^  she  would  at  once 
have  treated  herself  to  certain  little  embellishments  of 
the  old  house,  for  which  she  had  long  been  ambitious. 
But  it  would  be  absurd  to  buy  two  or  three  yards  of 
rosebud  chintz,  and  tire  herself  by  making  covers  to  two 
very  old  sofa-cushions,  when  the  point  to  be  decided  was 
in  which  of  three  grandly  furnished  mansions  she  would 
first  take  up  her  abode.  She  ordered  a  liberal  supper, 
however,  which  confirmed  Jemima  in  her  secret  opinion 
that  the  big  letter  had  brought  good  news. 

When,  therefore,  another  letter  of  similar  appearance 
arrived,  Jemima  snatched  up  the  waiter  and  burst  breath- 
lessly in  upon  Madam  Liberality,  leaving  the  door  open 
behind  her,  though  it  was  bitterly  cold  and  the  snow  fell 
fast. 

And  when  Madam  Liberality  opened  this  letter  she 
learned  that  her  cousin's  will  had  been  found,  and  that 
'74 


The  Gentle 

(as  seems  to  be  natural)  he  had  left  his  money  where 
it  would  be  associated  with  more  money  and  kept  well 
together.  His  heir  was  a  cousin  also,  but  in  the  next 
degree  — an  old  bachelor,  who  was  already  wealthy;  and 
he  had  left  Madam  Liberality  five  pounds  to  buy  a 
mourning  ring. 

It  had  been  said  that  Madam  Liberality  was  used  to 
disappointment,  but  some  minutes  passed  before  she 
quite  realised  the  downfall  of  her  latest  visions.  Then 
the  old  sofa-cushions  resumed  their  importance,  and  she 
flattened  the  fire  into  a  more  economical  shape,  and  set 
vigorously  to  work  to  decorate  the  house  with  the 
Christmas  evergreens. 

Mrs .  Ewing 


Visitor        <^v         ^         <^y         <^x         <^y         <£y         ^y 

HER  little  face  is  like  a  walnut  shell 
With  wrinkling  lines  ;  her  soft,  white  hair  adorns 
Her  either  brow  in  quaint,  straight  curls,  like  horns ; 
And  all  about  her  clings  an  old,  sweet  smell. 
Prim  is  her  gown  and  quakerlike  her  shawl. 
Well  might  her  bonnets  have  been  born  on  her. 
Can  you  conceive  a  Fairy  Godmother 
The  subject  of  a  real  religious  call  ? 
In  snow  or  shine,  from  bed  to  bed  she  runs, 
Her  mittened  hands,  that  ever  give  or  pray, 
Bearing  a  sheaf  of  tracts,  a  bag  of  buns, 
All  twinkling  smiles  and  texts  and  pious  tales : 
A  wee  old  maid  that  sweeps  the  Bridegroom's  way, 
Strong  in  a  cheerful  trust  that  never  fails. 

W.  E.  Henley 
175 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 
Lucy  Lyttleton        ^x         ^x         ^>         *^ 

To  the  Memory  of 
LUCY   LYTTLETON, 

daughter  of  Hugh  Fortescue  of  Filleigh, 

in  the  county  of  Devon,  esq. 
father  to  the  present  Earl  of  Clinton, 

by  Lucy  his  wife, 

the  daughter  of  Matthew  Lord  Aylmer, 
who  departed  this  life  the  igth  of  Jan.  1746-7, 

aged  twenty-nine ; 

having  employed  the  short  time  assigned  to  her  here 
in  the  uniform  practice  of  Religion  and  Virtue. 

Made  to  engage  all  hearts,  and  charm  all  eyes, 
Though  meek,  magnanimous,  though  witty,  wise ; 
Polite,  as  all  her  life  in  courts  had  been, 
Yet  good,  as  she  the  world  had  never  seen ; 
The  noble  fire  of  an  exalted  mind, 
With  gentlest  female  tenderness  combined. 
Her  speech  was  the  melodious  voice  of  love, 
Her  song  the  warbling  of  the  vernal  grove. 
Her  eloquence  was  sweeter  than  her  song, 
Soft  as  her  heart,  and  as  her  reason  strong, 
Her  form  each  beauty  of  her  mind  exprest, 
Her  mind  was  Virtue  by  the  Graces  drest. 

Anon. 


176 


Eve 


XV 

MOTHERS 

Look !  how  this  love,  this  mother,  runs  thro'  all 
The  world  God  made  —  even  the  beast  —  the  bird ! 

Lord  Tennyson  ("  Becket ") 

/<\^  *^^  *^^*  X"v^'  X^^  '^^  X^ 

T^ROM  this  Assyrian  garden,  where  the  Fiend 
•*-       Saw  undelighted  all  delight,  all  kind 
Of  living  creatures,  new  to  sight  and  strange. 
Two  of  far  nobler  shape,  erect  and  tall, 
Godlike  erect,  with  native  honour  clad 
In  naked  majesty,  seemed  lords  of  all, 
And  worthy  seemed  ;  for  in  their  looks  divine 
The  image  of  their  glorious  Maker  shone, 
Truth,  wisdom,  sanctitude  severe  and  pure  — 
Severe,  but  in  true  filial  freedom  placed, 
Whence  true  authority  in  men  :  though  both 
Not  equal,  as  their  sex  not  equal  seemed ; 
For  contemplation  he  and  valour  formed, 
For  softness  she  and  sweet  attractive  grace ; 
He  for  God  only,  she  for  God  in  him. 
His  fair  large  front  and  eye  sublime  declared 
Absolute  rule  ;  and  hyacinthine  locks 
Round  from  his  parted  forelock  manly  hung 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

Clustering,  but  not  beneath  his  shoulders  broad : 
She,  as  a  veil  down  to  the  slender  waist, 
Her  unadorned  golden  tresses  wore 
Dishevelled,  but  in  wanton  ringlets  waved. 
As  the  vine  curls  her  tendrils  —  which  implied 
Subjection,  but  required  with  gentle  sway, 
And  by  her  yielded,  by  him  best  received 
Yielded,  with  coy  submission,  modest  pride. 

Jolm  Milton 


The  Mother  of  Marcella        ^v        ^>        ^>        ^ 

I  THINK  I  see  her  now,   with  that  goodly  presence, 
looking  as  if  she   had   the  sun  on  one  side  of  her 
and  the  moon   on   the  other ;  and  above  all,  she  was  a 
notable  house-wife,  and  a  friend  to  the  poor;  for  which 
I  believe  her  soul  is  at  this  very  moment  in  heaven. 

Pedro,  in  "  Don  Quixote  " 


A  Roman  Wife        ^>         o         *o         ^>         ^ 

WOMAN,  a  word  with  you  ! 
Round-ribbed,  large-flanked, 
Broad-shouldered  (God  be  thanked !) 
Face  fair  and  free, 
And  pleasant  for  a  man  to  see  — 
I  know  not  whom  you  love ;  but  —  hark  !    be  true. 
Partake  his  honest  joys ; 
Cling  to  him,  grow  to  him,  make  noble  boys 
For  Italy. 

T.  E.  Brown 

I7g 


Mothers 

Dame  Hester  Temple      -o>      *^y      ^y      *^      <^ 

DAME  Hester  Temple,  daughter  to  Miles  Sands, 
Esquire,  was  born  at  Latmos  in  this  County ;  and 
was  married  to  Sir  Thomas  Temple  of  Stow,  Baronet. 
She  had  four  sons  and  nine  daughters,  which  lived  to  be 
married,  and  so  exceedingly  multiplied,  that  this  Lady 
saw  seven  hundred  extracted  from  her  body.  Reader, 
I  speak  within  compass,  and  have  left  myself  a  reserve, 
having  bought  the  truth  hereof  by  a  wager  I  lost. 
Besides,  there  was  a  new  generation  of  marriageable 
females  just  at  her  death ;  so  that  this  aged  vine  may  be 
said  to  wither,  even  when  it  had  many  young  boughs 
ready  to  knit. 

Had  I  been  one  of  her  Relations,  and  as  well  enabled 
as  most  of  them  be,  I  would  have  erected  a  Monument 
for  her,  thus  designed.  A  fair  tree  should  have  been 
erected,  the  said  Lady  and  her  Husband  lying  at  the 
bottom  or  the  root  thereof;  the  Heir  of  the  family  should 
have  ascended  both  the  middle  and  top-bough  thereof. 
On  the  right-hand  hereof  her  younger  sons,  on  the  left 
her  daughters  should,  as  so  many  boughs,  be  spread 
forth.  Her  grand-children  should  have  their  names 
inscribed  on  the  branches  of  those  boughs;  the  great- 
grand-children  on  the  tiviggs  of  those  branches  \  the 
great-great-grand-children  on  the  leaves  of  those  twiggs. 
Such  as  survived  her  death  should  be  done  in  a  lively 
green,  the  rest  (as  blasted)  in  a  pale  and  yellow  fading 
colour.  .  .  . 

Thus,  in  all  ages,  God  bestoweth  personal  felicities  on 
some,  far  above  the  proportion  of  others.  The  Lady 
Temple  dyed  anno  Domini  1656. 

Thomas  Fuller 


'79 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 


A  Forecast 


DEAR  Child  of  Nature,  let  them  rail! 
There  is  a  nest  in  a  green  dale, 
A  harbour  and  a  hold  ; 
Where  thou,  a  Wife  and  Friend,  shall  see 
Thy  own  delightful  days,  and  be 
A  light  to  young  and  old. 

There,  healthy  as  a  Shepherd  -boy, 
And  treading  among  flowers  of  joy 

Which  at  no  season  fade, 
Thou,  while  thy  Babes  around  thee  cling, 
Shalt  show  us  how  divine  a  thing 

A  Woman  may  be  made. 

Thy  thoughts  and  feelings  shall  not  die, 
Nor  leave  thee,  when  grey  hairs  are  nigh, 

A  melancholy  slave  ; 
But  an  old  age  serene  and  bright, 
And  lovely  as  a  Lapland  night, 

Shall  lead  thee  to  thy  grave. 

W.  Wordsworth 


George  Herbert's  Mother       <^        -o        <ix 

NO  spring,  nor  summer  beauty  hath  such  grace 
As  I  have  seen  in  one  autumnal  face ; 
Young  beauties  force  our  love,  and  that's  a  rape ; 
This  doth  but  counsel,  yet  you  cannot  'scape. 
1 80 


Mothers 

If  'twere  a  shame  to  love,  here  'twere  no  shame ; 
Affections  here  take  reverence's  name. 
Were  her  first  years  the  Golden  Age  ?  that's  true, 
But  now  they're  gold  oft  tried,  and  ever  new. 
That  was  her  torrid  and  inflaming  time ; 
This  is  her  tolerable  tropic  clime. 
Fair  eyes  ;  who  asks  more  heat  than  comes  from  hence, 
He  in  a  fever  wishes  pestilence. 
Call  not  these  wrinkles,  graves ;  if  graves  they  were, 
They  were  Love's  graves,  for  else  he  is  nowhere. 
Yet  lies  not  Love  dead  here,  but  here  doth  sit, 
Vow'd  to  this  trench,  like  [to]  an  anchorite, 
And  here,  till  hers,  which  must  be  his  death,  come. 
He  doth  not  dig  a  grave,  but  build  a  tomb. 
Here  dwells  he ;  though  he  sojourns  everywhere 
In  progress,  yet  his  standing  house  is  here ; 
Here,  where  still  evening  is,  not  noon,  nor  night ; 
Where  no  voluptuousness,  yet  all  delight. 
In  all  her  words,  unto  all  hearers  fit, 
You  may  at  revels,  you  at  council,  sit. 
This  is  love's  timber ;  youth  his  underwood ; 
There  he,  as  wine  in  June,  enrages  blood  ; 
Which  then  comes  seasonablest  when  our  taste 
And  appetite  to  other  things  is  past. 
Xerxes'  strange  Lydian  love,  the  platane  tree, 
Was  lov'd  for  age,  none  being  so  large  as  she ; 
Or  else  because,  being  young,  nature  did  bless 
Her  youth  with  age's  glory,  barrenness. 
If  we  love  things  long  sought,  age  is  a  thing 
Which  we  are  fifty  years  in  compassing; 
If  transitory  things,  which  soon  decay, 
Age  must  be  loveliest  at  the  latest  day. 
But  name  not  winter  faces,  who  skins  slack, 
Lank  as  an  unthrift's  purse,  but  a  soul's  sack ; 
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The  Ladies'  Pageant 

Whose  eyes  seek  light  within ;  for  all  here's  shade ; 

Whose  mouths  are  holes,  rather  worn  out,  than  made 

Whose  every  tooth  to  a  several  place  is  gone, 

To  vex  their  souls  at  resurrection  ; 

Name  not  these  living  death-heads  unto  me, 

For  these,  not  ancient,  but  antique  be. 

I  hate  extremes  ;  yet  I  had  rather  stay 

With  tombs  than  cradles,  to  wear  out  a  day. 

Since  such  love's  motion  natural  is,  may  still 

My  love  descend,  and  journey  down  the  hill. 

Not  panting  after  growing  beauties  ;  so 

I  shall  ebb  out  with  them  who  homeward  go. 

John  Donne 


Pope's  Mother 


AH  Editha  ! 
Matrum  Optima  ! 
Mulierum  Amantissima  ! 
Vale! 

Epitaph  at  Twickenham 


Susanna  Wesley  (by  epistolary  illumination)   *o      ^^ 

EPWORTH,  July  24^,  1732 
kEAR    SON,  —  According    to    your    desire,    I    have 


D1 


collected    the    principal     rules     I     observed     in 
educating  my  family.  .  .  . 

The  children  were  always  put  into  a   regular   method 
of  living,    in   such   things  as  they  were  capable  of,  from 
182 


Mothers 

their  birth ;  as  in  dressing  and  undressing,  changing 
their  linen,  &c.  The  first  quarter  commonly  passes  in 
sleep.  After  that  they  were,  if  possible,  laid  into  their 
cradle  awake,  and  rocked  to  sleep,  and  so  they  were  kept 
rocking  till  it  was  time  for  them  to  awake.  This  was  done 
to  bring  them  to  a  regular  course  of  sleeping,  which  at 
first  was  three  hours  in  the  morning,  and  three  in  the 
afternoon ;  afterwards  two  hours  till  they  needed  none  at 
all.  When  turned  a  year  old  (and  some  before)  they 
were  taught  to  fear  the  rod  and  to  cry  softly,  by  which 
means  they  escaped  abundance  of  correction  which  they 
might  otherwise  have  had,  and  that  most  odious  noise  of 
the  crying  of  children  was  rarely  heard  in  the  house,  but 
the  family  usually  lived  in  as  much  quietness  as  if  there 
had  not  been  a  child  among  them. 

As  soon  as  they  were  grown  pretty  strong  they  were 
confined  to  three  meals  a  day.  At  dinner  their  little 
tables  and  chairs  were  set  by  ours,  where  they  could  be 
overlooked ;  and  they  were  suffered  to  eat  and  drink 
(small  beer)  as  much  as  they  would,  but  not  to  call  for 
anything.  If  they  wanted  aught  they  used  to  whisper  to 
the  maid  that  attended  them,  who  came  and  spoke  to 
me ;  and  as  soon  as  they  could  handle  a  knife  and  fork 
they  were  set  to  our  table.  They  were  never  suffered  to 
choose  their  meat,  but  always  made  to  eat  such  things 
as  were  provided  for  the  family.  Mornings  they  always 
had  spoon-meat;  sometimes  at  nights.  But  whatever  they 
had,  they  were  never  permitted  at  those  meals  to  eat 
of  more  than  one  thing,  and  of  that  sparingly  enough. 
Drinking  or  eating  between  meals  was  never  allowed, 
unless  in  case  of  sickness,  which  seldom  happened. 
Nor  were  they  suffered  to  go  into  the  kitchen  to  ask 
anything  of  the  servants  when  they  were  at  meat :  if  it 
was  known  they  did  so,  they  were  certainly  beat,  and 
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The  Ladies'  Pageant 

the  servants  severely  reprimanded.  At  six,  as  soon  as 
family  prayer  was  over,  they  had  their  supper ;  at  seven 
the  maid  washed  them,  and,  beginning  at  the  youngest, 
she  undressed  and  got  them  all  to  bed  by  eight,  at  which 
time  she  left  them  in  their  several  rooms  awake,  for  there 
was  no  such  thing  allowed  of  in  our  house  as  sitting  by  a 
child  till  it  fell  asleep. 

They  were  so  constantly  used  to  eat  and  drink  what 
was  given  them  that  when  any  of  them  was  ill  there  was 
no  difficulty  in  making  them  take  the  most  unpleasant 
medicine ;  for  they  durst  not  refuse  it,  though  some  of 
them  would  presently  throw  it  up.  This  I  mention  to 
show  that  a  person  may  be  taught  to  take  anything, 
though  it  be  never  so  much  against  his  stomach.  .  .  . 

Our  children  were  taught  as  soon  as  they  could  speak 
the  Lord's  prayer,  which  they  were  made  to  say  at  rising 
and  at  bedtime  constantly,  to  which,  as  they  grew  bigger, 
were  added  a  short  prayer  for  their  parents,  and  some 
collects,  a  short  catechism,  and  some  portion  of  Scripture 
as  their  memories  could  bear.  They  were  very  early  made 
to  distinguish  the  Sabbath  from  other  days,  before  they 
could  well  speak  or  go.  They  were  as  soon  taught  to  be 
still  at  family  prayers,  and  to  ask  a  blessing  immediately 
after,  which  they  used  to  do  by  signs,  before  they  could 
kneel  or  speak. 

They  were  quickly  made  to  understand  they  might  have 
nothing  they  cried  for,  and  instructed  to  speak  handsomely 
for  what  they  wanted.  They  were  not  suffered  to  ask  even 
the  lowest  servant  for  aught  without  saying  "  Pray  give  me 
such  a  thing " ;  and  the  servant  was  chid  if  she  ever  let 
them  omit  that  word. 

Taking  God's  name  in  vain,  cursing  and  swearing, 
profanity,  obscenity,  rude  ill-bred  names,  were  never 
heard  among  them ;  nor  were  they  ever  permitted  to 
184 


Mothers 

call    each  other    by     their    proper    names    without    the 
addition  of  brother  or  sister.  .   .   . 

There  was  no  such  thing  as  loud  playing  or  talking 
allowed  of,  but  everyone  was  kept  close  to  business  for 
the  six  hours  of  school.  And  it  is  almost  incredible  what 
may  be  taught  a  child  in  a  quarter  of  a  year  by  a  vigorous 
application,  if  it  have  but  a  tolerable  capacity  and  good 
health.  Every  one  of  these,  Kezzy  excepted,  all  could 
read  better  in  that  time  than  the  most  of  women  can  do 
as  long  as  they  live.  Rising  out  of  their  places,  or  going 
out  of  the  room,  was  not  permitted  except  for  good  cause ; 
and  running  into  the  yard,  garden,  or  street,  without  leave, 
was  always  esteemed  a  capital  offence.  .  .  . 

Susanna  Wesley 


Cowper's  Mother       •^        *o        ^y        <^        <^> 

OTHAT  those  lips  had  language  !  Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine —  thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see, 
The  same,  that  oft  in  childhood  solac'd  me ; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
"  Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away ! " 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalise, 
The  art  that  baffles  Time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here ! 
Who  bid'st  me  honour  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long, 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone. 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own  : 
185 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 


And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief, 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 

My    mother !    when  I    learn'd   that    thou  wast 

dead, 

Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed  ? 
Hover'd  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son, 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun? 
Perhaps  thou  gav'st  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss ; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss  — 
Ah  that  maternal  smile  !  it  answers  —  Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  toll'd  on  thy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
And,  turning  from  my  nurs'ry  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu  ! 
But  was  it  such  ?  —  It  was.  —  Where  thou  art  gone, 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 
The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more ! 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 
What  ardently  I  wish'd,  I  long  believ'd, 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived. 
By  expectation  ev'ry  day  beguil'd, 
Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 
I  learn'd  at  last  submission  to  my  lot, 
But,  though  I  less  deplor'd  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nurs'ry  floor ; 
And  where  the  gard'ner  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way, 
1 86 


Mothers 

Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapped 

In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  capped, 

'Tis  now  become  a  hist'ry  little  known, 

That  once  we  call'd  the  past'ral  house  our  own. 

Short-liv'd  possession  !  but  the  record  fair, 

That  mem'ry  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 

Still  outlives  many  a  storm,  that  has  effac'd 

A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  trac'd. 

Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 

That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid ; 

Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, 

The  biscuit,  or  confectionary  plum ; 

The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestow'd 

By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glow'd  : 

All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all, 

Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, 

Ne'er  roughen'd  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks, 

That  humour  interpos'd  too  often  makes; 

All  this  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 

And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 

Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 

Such  honours  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may ; 

Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 

Not  scorn'd  in  Heav'n,  though  little  notic'd  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  revers'd,  restore  the  hours, 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flow'rs, 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  prick'd  them  into  paper  with  a  pin, 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head,  and  smile), 
Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear, 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them  here? 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart  —  the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desir'd,  perhaps  I  might. — 
187 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

But  no  —  what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such 
So  little  to  be  lov'd,  and  thou  so  much, 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Then,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast 
(The  storms  all  weather'd  and  the  ocean  cross'd) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-haven'd  isle, 
Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay  ; 
So  thou,  with  sails   how  swift !  hast  reach'd   the 

shore, 

"  Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar," 
And  thy  lov'd  consort  on  the  dang'rous  tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchor'd  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distressed  — 
Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-toss'd, 
Sails  ripp'd,  seams  op'ning  wide,  and  compass  lost, 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosp'rous  course. 
Yet  O  the  thought,  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he  ! 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not,  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthron'd,  and  rulers  of  the  earth  ; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise  — 
The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies. 
And  now,  farewell  —  Time  unrevok'd  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wish'd  is  done. 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem'd  t'  have  liv'd  my  childhood  o'er  again; 
To  have  renew'd  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
188 


Mothers 

Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine  ; 
And,  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft  — 
Thyself  remov'd,  thy  pow'r  to  soothe  me  left. 

W.  Cowper 


A  Roman  Mother          <^y       -QV       ^>       *^y       - 

GOOD  wife,  good  mother  —  yes,  I  know. 
But  what  a  glow 
Of  elemental  fires ! 
What  breadth,  what  stately  flow 
Of  absolute  desires  — 
How  bound 
To  household  task 
And  daily  round, 
It  boots  not  ask! 

Good  mother,  and  good  wife  — 

These  women  seem  to  live  suspended  life. 

As  lakes,  dark-gleaming,  till  the  night  is  done, 

Expect  the  sun, 

§o  these, 

That  wont  to  hold  Jove's  offspring  on  their  knees, 

Take  current  odds, 

Accept  life's  lees, 

And  wait  returning  Gods. 

T.  E.  Brown 


189 


XVI 
THE   WIFE    PERFECT 

I  WILL  tell  you  a  story  that  was  told  me  when  I  was 
a  little  boy.     Every  time  I  thought  of  this  story,  it 
seemed  to  me  more  and  more  charming ;   for  it  is  with 
stories  as  it  is  with  many  people  —  they  become  better  as 
they  grow  older. 

I  have  no  doubt  that  you  have  been  in  the  country,  and 
seen  a  very  old  farmhouse,  with  a  thatched  roof,  and 
mosses  and  small  plants  growing  wild  upon  it.  There 
is  a  stork's  nest  on  the  ridge  of  the  gable,  for  we  cannot 
do  without  the  stork.  The  walls  of  the  house  are  sloping, 
and  the  windows  are  low,  and  only  one  of  the  latter  is 
made  to  open.  The  baking-oven  sticks  out  of  the  wall 
like  a  great  knob.  An  elder-tree  hangs  over  the  palings  ; 
and  beneath  its  branches,  at  the  foot  of  the  paling,  is  a 
pool  of  water,  in  which  a  few  ducks  are  disporting  them- 
selves. There  is  a  yard-dog  too,  who  barks  at  all  comers. 
Just  such  a  farmhouse  as  this  stood  in  a  country  lane ; 
and  in  it  dwelt  an  old  couple,  a  peasant  and  his  wife. 
Small  as  their  possessions  were,  they  had  one  article 
they  could  not  do  without,  and  that  was  a  horse,  which 
contrived  to  live  upon  the  grass  which  it  found  by  the 
side  of  the  high-road.  The  old  peasant  rode  into  the 
town  upon  his  horse,  and  his  neighbours  often  borrowed 
190 


The  Wife  Perfect 

it  of  him,  and  paid  for  the  loan  of  it  by  rendering  some 
service  to  the  old  couple.  After  a  time  they  thought  it 
would  be  as  well  to  sell  the  horse,  or  exchange  it  for 
something  which  might  be  more  useful  to  them.  But 
what  might  this  something  hzl 

"  You'll  know  best,  old  man,"  said  the  wife.  "  It  is  fair- 
day  to-day ;  so  ride  into  town,  and  get  rid  of  the  horse 
for  money,  or  make  a  good  exchange ;  whichever  you  do 
will  be  right  to  me,  so  ride  to  the  fair." 

And  she  fastened  his  neckerchief  for  him ;  for  she 
could  do  that  better  than  he  could,  and  she  could  also 
tie  it  very  prettily  in  a  double  bow.  She  also  smoothed 
his  hat  round  and  round  with  the  palm  of  her  hand,  and 
gave  him  a  kiss.  Then  he  rode  away  upon  the  horse 
that  was  to  be  sold  or  bartered  for  something  else.  Yes, 
the  old  man  knew  what  he  was  about.  The  sun  shone 
with  great  heat,  and  not  a  cloud  was  to  be  seen  in  the 
sky.  The  road  was  very  dusty ;  for  a  number  of  people, 
all  going  to  the  fair,  were  driving,  riding,  or  walking 
upon  it.  There  was  no  shelter  anywhere  from  the  hot 
sunshine.  Among  the  rest,  a  man  came  trudging  along 
and  driving  a  cow  to  the  fair.  The  cow  was  as  beautiful  a 
creature  as  any  cow  could  be. 

"  She  gives  good  milk,  I  am  certain,"  said  the  peasant 
to  himself.  "  That  would  be  a  very  good  exchange : 
the  cow  for  the  horse.  Hallo  there  !  you  with  the  cow," 
he  said.  "  I  tell  you  what ;  I  dare  say  a  horse  is  of 
more  value  than  a  cow ;  but  I  don't  care  for  that,  —  a 
cow  will  be  more  useful  to  me ;  so,  if  you  like,  we'll  ex- 
change." 

"To  be  sure  I  will,"  said  the  man. 

Accordingly  the  exchange  was  made ;  and  as  the  matter 
was  settled,  the  peasant  might  have  turned  back;  for 
he  had  done  the  business  he  came  to  do.  But,  having 
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The  Ladies'   Pageant 

made  up  his  mind  to  go  to  the  fair,  he  determined  to  do 
so,  if  only  to  have  a  look  at  it ;  so  on  he  went  to  the  town 
with  his  cow.  Leading  the  animal,  he  strode  on  sturdily, 
and,  after  a  short  time,  overtook  a  man  who  was  driving 
a  sheep.  It  was  a  good  fat  sheep,  with  a  fine  fleece  on  its 
back. 

"  I  should  like  to  have  that  fellow,"  said  the  peasant 
to  himself.  "  There  is  plenty  of  grass  for  him  by  our 
palings,  and  in  the  winter  we  could  keep  him  in  the  room 
with  us.  Perhaps  it  would  be  more  profitable  to  have  a 
sheep  than  a  cow.  Shall  I  exchange  ? " 

The  man  with  the  sheep  was  quite  ready,  and  the 
bargain  was  quickly  made.  And  then  our  peasant  con- 
tinued his  way  on  the  high-road  with  his  sheep.  Soon 
after  this,  he  overtook  another  man,  who  had  come  into 
the  road  from  a  field,  and  was  carrying  a  large  goose 
under  his  arm. 

"  What  a  heavy  creature  you  have  there ! "  said  the 
peasant ;  "  it  has  plenty  of  feathers  and  plenty  of  fat, 
and  would  look  well  tied  to  a  string,  or  paddling  in  the 
water  at  our  place.  That  would  be  very  useful  to  my  old 
woman  ;  she  could  make  all  sorts  of  profit  out  of  it.  How 
often  she  has  said,  '  If  now  we  only  had  a  goose! '  Now 
here  is  an  opportunity,  and,  if  possible,  I  will  get  it  for  her. 
Shall  we  exchange  ?  I  will  give  you  my  sheep  for  your 
goose,  and  thanks  into  the  bargain." 

The  other  had  not  the  least  objection,  and  accordingly 
the  exchange  was  made,  and  our  peasant  became 
possessor  of  the  goose.  By  this  time,  he  had  arrived 
very  near  the  town.  The  crowd  on  the  high-road  had 
been  gradually  increasing,  and  there  was  quite  a  rush 
of  men  and  cattle.  The  cattle  walked  on  the  path  and 
by  the  palings,  and  at  the  turnpike-gate  they  even  walked 
into  the  toll-keeper's  potato-field,  where  one  fowl  was 
192 


The  Wife  Perfect 

strutting  about  with  a  string  tied  to  its  leg,  for  fear  it 
should  take  fright  at  the  crowd,  and  run  away  and  get 
lost.  The  tail-feathers  of  this  fowl  were  very  short,  and 
it  winked  with  both  its  eyes,  and  looked  very  cunning, 
as  it  said.  "  Cluck,  cluck."  What  were  the  thoughts  of 
the  fowl  as  it  said  this  I  cannot  tell  you;  but  directly 
our  good  man  saw  it,  he  thought,  "  Why,  that's  the  finest 
fowl  I  ever  saw  in  my  life;  it's  finer  than  our  parson's 
brood  hen,  upon  my  word.  I  should  like  to  have  that 
fowl.  Fowls  can  always  pick  up  a  few  grains  that  lie 
about,  and  almost  keep  themselves.  I  think  it  would 
be  a  good  exchange  if  I  could  get  it  for  my  goose.  Shall 
we  exchange  ?  "  he  asked  the  toll-keeper. 

"  Exchange,"  repeated  the  man ;  "  well,  it  would  not 
be  a  bad  thing." 

And  so  they  made  an  exchange,  —  the  toll-keeper  at 
the  turnpike-gate  kept  the  goose,  and  the  peasant  carried 
off  the  fowl.  Now  he  really  had  done  a  great  deal  of 
business  on  his  way  to  the  fair,  and  he  was  hot  and 
tired.  He  wanted  something  to  eat,  and  a  glass  of  ale 
to  refresh  himself;  so  he  turned  his  steps  to  an  inn. 
He  was  just  about  to  enter  when  the  ostler  came 
out,  and  they  met  at  the  door.  The  ostler  was  carrying 
a  sack.  "  What  have  you  in  that  sack  ? "  asked  the 
peasant. 

"  Rotten  apples,"  answered  the  ostler ;  "  a  whole 
sackful  of  them.  They  will  do  to  feed  the  pigs 
with." 

"  Why,  that  will  be  terrible  waste,"  he  replied ;  "  I 
should  like  to  take  them  home  to  my  old  woman.  Last 
year  the  old  apple-tree  by  the  grass-plot  only  bore  one 
apple,  and  we  kept  it  in  the  cupboard  till  it  was  quite 
withered  and  rotten.  It  was  always  property,  my  old 
woman  said ;  and  here  she  would  see  a  great  deal  of 
o  193 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

property — a  whole  sackful :  I  should  like  to  show  them 
to  her." 

"  What  will  you  give  me  for  the  sackful  ? "  asked  the 
ostler. 

"  What  will  I  give  ?  Well,  I  will  give  you  my  fowl  in 
exchange." 

So  he  gave  up  the  fowl,  and  received  the  apples,  which 
he  carried  into  the  inn  parlour.  He  leaned  the  sack 
carefully  against  the  stove,  and  then  went  to  the  table. 
But  the  stove  was  hot,  and  he  had  not  thought  of  that. 
Many  guests  were  present  —  horse-dealers,  cattle  drovers, 
and  two  Englishmen.  The  Englishmen  were  so  rich 
that  their  pockets  quite  bulged  out  and  seemed  ready 
to  burst;  and  they  could  bet  too,  as  you  shall  hear. 
"Hiss — s — s,  hiss— s — s."  What  could  that  be  by  the 
stove  ?  The  apples  were  beginning  to  roast.  "  What 
is  that?  "  asked  one. 

"Why,    do   you   know "  said   our  peasant.     And 

then  he  told  them  the  whole  story  of  the  horse,  which 
he  had  exchanged  for  a  cow,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  down 
to  the  apples. 

"  Well,  your  old  woman  will  give  it  you  well  when  you 
get  home."  said  one  of  the  Englishmen.  "  Won't  there 
be  a  noise  ?  " 

"  What  !  Give  me  what  ?  "  said  the  peasant.  "  Why, 
she  will  kiss  me,  and  say,  'what  the  old  man  does  is 
always  right.'  " 

"  Let  us  lay  a  wager  on  it,"  said  the  Englishman. 
"  We'll  wager  you  a  ton  of  coined  gold,  a  hundred  pounds 
to  the  hundredweight." 

"  No  ;  a  bushelful  will  be  enough,"  replied  the  peasant. 
"  I    can   only  set  a  bushel  of  apples  against  it,  and  I'll 
throw  myself  and  my  old  woman  into  the  bargain ;  that 
will  pile  up  the  measure,  I  fancy." 
194 


The  Wife  Perfect 

"  Done!  taken!  "  and  so  the  bet  was  made. 

Then  the  landlord's  coach  came  to  the  door,  and  the 
two  Englishmen  and  the  peasant  got  in,  and  away  they 
drove,  and  soon  arrived  and  stopped  at  the  peasant's 
hut.  "  Good  evening,  old  woman."  "  Good  evening, 
old  man."  "  I've  made  the  exchange." 

"Ah,  well,  you  understand  what  you're  about,"  said 
the  woman.  Then  she  embraced  him,  and  paid  no 
attention  to  the  strangers,  nor  did  she  notice  the 
sack. 

"  I  got  a  cow  in  exchange  for  the  horse." 

"  Thank  Heaven,"  said  she.  "  Now  we  shall  have 
plenty  of  milk,  and  butter,  and  cheese  on  the  table. 
That  was  a  capital  exchange." 

"  Yes,  but  I  changed  the  cow  for  a  sheep." 

"Ah,  better  still!"  cried  the  wife.  "You  always 
think  of  everything;  we  have  just  enough  pasture 
for  a  sheep.  Ewe's  milk  and  cheese,  woollen 
jackets  and  stockings!  The  cow  could  not  give  all 
these,  and  her  hairs  only  fall  off.  How  you  think  of 
everything!" 

"  But  I  changed  away  the  sheep  for  a  goose." 

"  Then  we  shall  have  roast  goose  to  eat  this  year.  You 
dear  old  man,  you  are  always  thinking  of  something  to 
please  me.  This  is  delightful.  We  can  let  the  goose 
walk  about  with  a  string  tied  to  her  leg,  so  she  will  be 
fatter  still  before  we  roast  her." 

"  But  I  gave  away  the  goose  for  a  fowl." 

"  A  fowl !  Well,  that  was  a  good  exchange,"  replied 
the  woman.  "  The  fowl  will  lay  eggs  and  hatch  them, 
and  we  shall  have  chickens ;  we  shall  soon  have  a 
poultry-yard.  Oh,  this  is  just  what  I  was  wishing  for." 

"  Yes,  but  I  exchanged  the  fowl  for  a  sack  of  shrivelled 
apples." 

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The   Ladies'    Pageant 

"What!  I  must  really  give  you  a  kiss  for  that!'' 
exclaimed  the  wife.  "My  dear,  good  husband,  now  I'll 
tell  you  something.  Do  you  know,  almost  as  soon  as 
you  left  me  this  morning  I  began  thinking  of  what  I 
could  give  you  nice  for  supper  this  evening,  and  then 
I  thought  of  fried  eggs  and  bacon,  with  sweet  herbs; 
I  had  eggs  and  bacon,  but  I  wanted  the  herbs ;  so  I 
went  over  to  the  schoolmaster's :  I  knew  they  had  plenty 
of  herbs,  but  the  schoolmistress  is  very  mean,  although 
she  can  smile  so  sweetly.  I  begged  her  to  lend  me  a 
handful  of  herbs.  'Lend!1  she  exclaimed,  "I  have 
nothing  to  lend ;  nothing  at  all  grows  in  our  garden, 
not  even  a  shrivelled  apple ;  I  could  not  even  lend  you 
a  shrivelled  apple,  my  dear  woman.1  But  now  I  can 
lend  her  ten,  or  a  whole  sackful,  which  I'm  very  glad  of; 
it  makes  me  laugh  to  think  about  it ;  "  and  then  she  gave 
him  a  hearty  kiss. 

"Well,  I  like  all  this,11  said  both  the  Englishmen; 
"  always  going  down  the  hill,  and  yet  always  merry ; 
it's  worth  the  money  to  see  it."  So  they  paid  a  bushel 
of  gold  to  the  peasant,  who,  whatever  he  did,  was  not 
scolded,  but  kissed. 

Yes,  it  always  pays  best  when  the  wife  sees  and 
maintains  that  her  husband  knows  best,  and  that  what- 
ever he  does  is  right. 

This  is  a  story  which  I  heard  when  I  was  a  child; 
and  now  you  have  heard  it  too,  and  now  that  "  What 
the  old  man  does  is  always  right." 

H  C.  Andersen 


196 


XVII 
FAMILY    FRIENDS 

The  Schoolmistress         o       -o       <^>-       ^^       <^ 

NEAR  to  this  dome  is  found  a  patch  so  green, 
On  which  the  tribe  their  gambols  do  display, 
And  at  the  door  imprisoning  board  is  seen, 
Lest  weakly  wights  of  smaller  size  should  stray, 
Eager,  perdie,  to  bask  in  sunny  day! 
The  noises  intermix'd,  which  thence  resound, 
Do  Learning's  little  tenement  betray, 
Where  sits  the  dame,  disguis'd  in  look  profound, 
And  eyes  her  fairy  throng,  and  turns  her  wheel  around. 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven  snow, 
Emblem  right  meet  of  decency  does  yield  ; 
Her  apron  dy'd  in  grain,  as  blue,  I  trow, 
As  is  the  harebell  that  adorns  the  field ; 
And  in  her  hand,  for  sceptre,  she  does  wield 
Tway  birchen  sprays,  with  anxious  fear  entwin'd, 
With  dark  distrust,  and  sad  repentance  filPd, 
And  steadfast  hate,  and  sharp  affliction  join'd, 
And  fury  uncontrol'd,  and  chastisement  unkind.  .  .  . 
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The  Ladies'   Pageant 

A  russet  stole  was  o'er  her  shoulders  thrown, 
A  russet  kirtle  fenc'd  the  nipping  air ; 
'Twas  simple  russet,  but  it  was  her  own  ; 
'Twas  her  own  country  bred  the  flock  so  fair ; 
'Twas  her  own  labour  did  the  fleece  prepare ; 
And,  sooth  to  say,  her  pupils,  rang'd  around, 
Through  pious  awe  did  term  it  passing  rare, 
For  they  in  gaping  wonderment  abound, 
And  think,  no   doubt,  she   been  the  greatest  wight  on 
ground. 

Albeit  ne  flattery  did  corrupt  her  truth, 

Ne  pompous  title  did  debauch  her  ear, 

Goody,  good-woman,  gossip,  n'aunt,  forsooth, 

Or  dame,  the  sole  additions  she  did  hear ; 

Yet  these  she  challeng'd,  these  she  held  right  dear ; 

Ne  would  esteem  him  act  as  nought  behove 

Who  should  not  honour1  d  eld  with  these  revere ; 

For  never  title  yet  so  mean  could  prove, 

But  there  was  eke  a  mind  which  did  that  title  love. 

One  ancient  hen  she  took  delight  to  feed, 

The  plodding  pattern  of  the  busy  dame. 

Which  ever  and  anon,  impelPd  by  need, 

Into  her  school,  begirt  with  chickens,  came, 

Such  favour  did  her  past  deportment  claim  ; 

And,  if  neglect  had  lavish'd  on  the  ground 

Fragment  of  bread,  she  would  collect  the  same ; 

For  well  she  knew,  and  quaintly  could  expound, 

What  sin  it  were  to  waste  the  smallest  crumb  she  found. 

Herbs  too  she  knew,  and  well  of  each  could  speak 
That  in  her  garden  sipp'd  the  silvery  dew, 
Where  no  vain  flower  disclos'd  a  gaudy  streak, 
But  herbs  for  use  and  physic,  not  a  few 
198 


Family  Friends 

Of  grey  renown,  within  those  borders  grew; 

The  tufted  basil,  pun-provoking  thyme, 

Fresh  baum,  and  marygold  of  cheerful  hue, 

The  lowly  gill,  that  never  dares  to  climb, 

And  more  I  fain  would  sing,  disdaining  here  to  rhyme. 

Yet  euphrasy  may  not  be  left  unsung, 
That  gives  dim  eyes  to  wander  leagues  around, 
And  pungent  radish,  biting  infant's  tongue, 
And  plantain  ribb'd,  that  heals  the  reaper's  wound, 
And  marjoram  sweet,  in  shepherd's  posie  found, 
And  lavender,  whose  pikes  of  azure  bloom 
Shall  be,  erewhile,  in  arid  bundles  bound, 
To  lurk  amidst  the  labours  of  her  loom, 
And   crown   her  kerchiefs    clean   with   mickle   rare  per- 
fume. .  .  . 

Here  oft  the  dame,  on  Sabbath's  decent  eve, 

Hymned  such  psalms  as  Sternhold  forth  did  mete  ; 

If  winter  'twere  she  to  her  hearth  did  cleave, 

But  in  her  garden  found  a  summer-seat : 

Sweet  melody !  to  hear  her  then  repeat 

How  Israel's  sons,  beneath  a  foreign  king, 

While  taunting  foemen  did  a  song  entreat, 

All  for  the  nonce  untuning  every  string, 

Uphung  their  useless  lyres  — small  heart  had  they  to  sing. 

For  she  was  just,  and  friend  to  virtuous  lore, 
And  pass'd  much  time  in  truly  virtuous  deed ; 
And  in  those  elfins'  ears  would  oft  deplore 
The  times  when  Truth  by  Popish  rage  did  bleed, 
And  tortuous  death  was  true  Devotion's  meed ; 
And  simple  Faith  in  iron  chains  did  mourn, 
That  nould  on  wooden  image  place  her  creed ; 
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The   Ladies'    Pageant 

And  lawny  saints  in  smouldering  flames  did  burn : 
Ah  !  dearest  Lord  !  forefend  thilk  days  should  e'er  return. 

William  Shenstone 


The  Nurse          <^y       <^y       -<cy       <iv       *^y 

SUCH  innocent  companionship 
Is  hers,  whether  she  wake  or  sleep, 
Tis  scarcely  strange  her  face  should  wear 
The  young  child's  grave  and  innocent  air. 

All  the  night  long  she  hath  by  her 
The  quiet  breathing,  the  soft  stir, 
Nor  knows  how  in  that  tender  place 
The  children's  angels  veil  the  face. 

She  wakes  at  dawn  with  bird  and  child 
To  earth  new-washed  and  reconciled, 
The  hour  of  silence  and  of  dew, 
When  God  hath  made  His  world  anew. 

She  sleeps  at  eve,  about  the  hour 
Of  bedtime  for  the  bird  and  flower, 
When  daisies,  evening  primroses, 
Know  that  the  hour  of  closing  is. 

Her  daylight  thoughts  are  all  on  toys 
And  games  for  darling  girls  and  boys, 
Lest  they  should  fret,  lest  they  should  weep, 
Strayed  from  their  heavenly  fellowship. 

She  is  as  pretty  and  as  brown 

As  the  wood's  children  far  from  town, 

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Family  Friends 

As  bright-eyed,  glancing,  shy  of  men 
As  any  squirrel,  any  wren. 

Tender  she  is  to  beast  and  bird, 
As  in  her  breast  some  memory  stirred 
Of  days  when  those  were  kin  of  hers 
Who  go  in  feathers  and  in  furs. 

A  child,  yet  is  the  children's  law, 
And  rules  by  love  and  rules  by  awe. 
And,  stern  at  times,  is  kind  withal 
As  a  girl-baby  with  her  doll. 

Outside  the  nursery  door  there  lies 
The  world  with  all  its  griefs  and  sighs, 
Its  needs,  its  sins,  its  stain  of  sense : 
Within  is  only  innocence. 

Katharine  Tynan 


Prew,  his  Maid 


IN  this  little  urne  is  laid 
Prewdence  Baldwin,  once  my  maid, 
From  whose  happy  spark  here  let 
Spring  the  purple  violet. 

Robert  Herrick 


Alison  Cunningham 


PR  the  long  nights  you  lay  awake 
And  watched  for  my  unworthy  sake  : 
For  your  most  comfortable  hand 
That  led  me  through  the  uneven  land : 
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The  Ladies'  Pageant 

For  all  the  story-books  you  read  : 
For  all  the  pains  you  comforted  : 
For  all  you  pitied,  all  you  bore, 
In  sad  and  happy  days  of  yore  :  — 
My  second  Mother,  my  first  Wife, 
The  angel  of  my  infant  life  — 
From  the  sick  child,  now  well  and  old, 
Take,  nurse,  the  little  book  you  hold ! 

And  grant  it,  Heaven,  that  all  who  read 
May  find  as  dear  a  nurse  at  need, 
And  every  child  who  lists  my  rhyme, 
In  the  bright,  fireside,  nursery  clime, 
May  hear  it  in  as  kind  a  voice 
As  made  my  childish  days  rejoice! 

ft.  L.  Stevenson 


Mistress  Nicely :  a  Pattern  for  Housekeepers 

(Written  after  seeing  Mrs.  Davenport  in 
the  character,  at  Covent  Garden) 

SHE  was  a  woman  peerless  in  her  station 
With  household  virtues  wedded  to  her  name 
Spotless  in  linen,  grass-bleach'd  in  her  fame, 
And  pure  and  clear-starch'd  in  her  conversation  ; 
Thence  in  my  Castle  of  Imagination 
She  dwells  for  evermore,  the  dainty  dame, 
To  keep  all  airy  draperies  from  shame, 
And  all  dream  furnitures  in  preservation ; 
There  walketh  she  with  keys  quite  silver  bright, 
In  perfect  hose,  and  shoes  of  seemly  black, 
Apron  and  stomacher  of  lily-white, 


Family  Friends 

And  decent  order  follows  in  her  track : 

The  burnish'd  plate  grows  lustrous  in  her  sight, 

And  polish'd  floors  and  tables  shine  her  back. 

T.  Hood 


Suphy  Johnston          *o        *o        ^>        ^y        <i* 

AND  Sophia,  or,  as  she  was  always  called, 
Suphy  —  Johnston,  of  the  Hilton  family.  There 
was  an  original !  Her  father,  from  some  whim,  resolved 
to  see  how  it  would  turn  out,  and  gave  her  no  education 
whatever.  Possessed  of  great  natural  vigour  of  mind, 
she  passed  her  youth  in  utter  rusticity ;  in  the  course 
of  which  however  she  made  herself  a  good  carpenter 
and  a  good  smith  —  arts  which  she  practised  occasion- 
ally, even  to  the  shoeing  of  a  horse,  I  believe  till  after 
the  middle  of  her  life.  It  was  not  till  after  she  became 
a  woman  that  she  taught  herself  to  read  and  write ;  and 
then  she  read  incessantly.  She  must  have  been  about 
60  before  I  ever  saw  her,  which  was  chiefly,  and 
often,  at  Niddrie.  Her  dress  was  always  the  same  —  a 
man's  hat  when  out  of  doors,  and  generally  when 
within  them,  a  cloth  covering  exactly  like  a  man's 
great-coat,  buttoned  closely  from  the  chin  to  the 
ground,  worsted  stockings,  strong  shoes  with  large 
brass  clasps.  And  in  this  raiment  she  sat  in  any 
drawing  -  room,  and  at  any  table,  amidst  all  the 
fashion  and  aristocracy  of  the  land,  respected  and 
liked. 

For      her     dispositions     were     excellent ;       her    talk 

intelligent  and  racy,  rich  both  in  old  anecdote,   and  in 

shrewd  modern    observation,    and  spiced    with    a   good 

deal    of   plain    sarcasm ;     her    understanding    powerful ; 

203 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

all  her  opinions  free,  and  very  freely  expressed ;  and 
neither  loneliness,  nor  very  slender  means,  ever  brought 
sourness  or  melancholy  to  her  face  or  her  heart. 

Sitting,  with  her  back  to  the  light,  in  the  usual  arm- 
chair by  the  side  of  the  fire,  in  the  Niddrie  drawing- 
room,  with  her  great-coat  and  her  hat,  her  dark 
wrinkled  face,  and  firmly  pursed  mouth,  the  two  feet 
set  flat  on  the  floor  and  close  together,  so  that  the 
public  had  a  full  view  of  the  substantial  shoes,  the 
book  held  by  the  two  hands  very  near  the  eyes,  if  the 
quick  ear  overheard  any  presumptuous  folly,  be  it  from 
solemn  gentleman  or  fine  lady,  down  went  the  volume, 
up  the  spectacles  —  "That's  surely  great  nonsense,  Sir," 
though  she  had  never  seen  him  before ;  then,  a  little 
Quart  and  Tierce  would  begin,  and  the  wight  must 
have  been  very  lucky  if  it  did  not  end  by  his  being 
smote. 

Her  own  proper  den  was  in  a  flat  on  the  ground  floor 
of  a  house  in  Windmill  Street,  where  her  sole  companion 
was  a  single  female  servant.  When  the  servant  went 
out,  which  she  generally  took  the  liberty  of  doing  for 
the  whole  of  Sunday,  Suphy's  orders  were  that  she 
should  lock  the  door  and  take  the  key  with  her.  This 
saved  Suphy  the  torment  of  always  rising ;  for  people 
went  away  when  they  found  the  house,  as  they  thought, 
shut  up.  But  she  had  a  hole  through  which  she  saw 
them  perfectly  well ;  and,  if  she  was  inclined,  she  con- 
versed through  this  orifice ;  and  when  tired  of  them  told 
them  to  go  away. 

Though  enjoying  life,  neither  she  nor  any  of  those 
stout-hearted  women  had  any  horror  of  death.  When 
Suphy's  day  was  visibly  approaching,  Dr.  Gregory 
prescribed  abstinence  from  animal  food,  and  recom- 
mended "  spoon  meat,"  unless  she  wished  to  die.  "  Dee, 
204 


Family  Friends 

Doctor!  odd—  Tm  thinking  they've  forgotten  an  auld 
wife  like  me  up  yonder  !"  However,  when  he  came 
back  next  day,  the  Doctor  found  her  at  the  spoon 
meat  —  supping  a  haggis.  She  was  remembered. 

Lord  Cockburn 

The  Old  View        ^^      *^      ^^>      "^      <^y      *^y 


r  I  "HE  utmost  of  a  woman's  character  is  contained  in 
J-    domestic  life;  ...  All  she  has  to  do  in  this  world 
is   contained  within  the  duties  of  a  daughter,  a  sister,  a 
wife,  and  a  mother. 

Sir  Richard  Steele 

II 

AS  our  English  women  excel  those  of  all  nations  in 
beauty,  they  should  endeavour  to  out-shine  them 
in  all  other  accomplishments  proper  to  the  sex,  and  to 
distinguish  themselves  as  tender  mothers  and  faithful 
wives,  rather  than  as  furious  partizans.  Female  virtues 
are  of  a  domestic  turn.  The  family  is  the  proper 
province  for  private  women  to  shine  in. 

Joseph  Addison 


20? 


XVIII 
THE   ADVENTURERS 


Lady  Hester  Stanhope  <^       ^>       <^>       ^y 

THE  woman  before  me  had  exactly  the  person  of 
a  Prophetess  —  not,  indeed,  of  the  divine  Sibyl 
imagined  by  Domenichino,  so  sweetly  distracted  betwixt 
Love,  and  Mystery,  but  of  a  good,  business-like,  practical, 
-Prophetess,  long  used  to  the  exercise  of  her  sacred 
calling.  I  have  been  told  by  those  who  knew  Lady 
Hester  Stanhope  in  her  youth,  that  any  notion  of  a 
resemblance  betwixt  her  and  the  great  Chatham,  must 
have  been  fanciful,  but  at  the  time  of  my  seeing  her,  the 
large  commanding  features  of  the  gaunt  woman,  then 
sixty  years  old  or  more,  certainly  reminded  me  of  the 
Statesman  that  lay  dying1  in  the  House  of  Lords 
according  to  Copley's  picture ;  her  face  was  of  the  most 
astonishing  whiteness ; 2  she  wore  a  very  large  turban 
made  seemingly  of  pale  cashmere  shawls,  and  so 
disposed  as  to  conceal  the  hair;  her  dress,  from  the 
chin  down  to  the  point  at  which  it  was  concealed  by  the 
drapery  on  her  lap,  was  a  mass  of  white  linen  loosely 

1  Historically  "fainting"  ;   the   death   did  not  occur  until  long 
afterwards. 

21  am  told  that  in  youth  she  was  exceedingly  sallow. 
206 


The  Adventurers 

folding  —  an  ecclesiastical  sort  of  affair  —  more  like  a 
surplice  than  any  of  those  blessed  creations  which  our 
souls  love  under  the  names  of  "  dress,"  and  "  frock,"  and 
"  boddice,"  and  "  collar,"  and  "  habit-shirt,"  and  sweet 
"chemisette." 

Such  was  the  outward  seeming  of  the  personage  that 
sat  before  me,  and  indeed  she  was  almost  bound  by  the 
fame  of  her  actual  achievements,  as  well  as  by  her 
sublime  pretensions,  to  look  a  little  differently  from  the 
rest  of  woman-kind.  There  had  been  something  of 
grandeur  in  her  career:  after  the  death  of  Lady 
Chatham,  which  happened  in  1803,  she  lived  under  the 
roof  of  her  uncle,  the  second  Pitt,  and  when  he  resumed 
the  Government  in  1804,  she  became  the  dispenser  of 
much  patronage,  and  sole  Secretary  of  State  for  the 
department  of  Treasury  banquets.  Not  having  seen  the 
Lady  until  late  in  her  life,  when  she  was  fired  with 
spiritual  ambition,  I  can  hardly  fancy  that  she  could 
have  performed  her  political  duties  in  the  saloons  of  the 
Minister  with  much  of  feminine  sweetness  and  patience ; 
I  am  told,  however,  that  she  managed  matters  very  well 
indeed ;  perhaps  it  was  better  for  the  lofty-minded  leader 
of  the  House  to  have  his  reception-rooms  guarded  by 
this  stately  creature,  than  by  a  merely  clever  and 
managing  woman ;  it  was  fitting  that  the  wholesome 
awe  with  which  he  filled  the  minds  of  the  country 
gentlemen  should  be  aggravated  by  the  presence  of  his 
majestic  niece.  But  the  end  was  approaching.  The  sun 
of  Austerlitz  shewed  the  Czar  madly  sliding  his  splendid 
army  like  a  weaver's  shuttle,  from  his  right  hand  to  his 
left,  under  the  very  eyes  —  the  deep,  gray,  watchful  eyes 
of  Napoleon ;  before  night  came,  the  coalition  was  a 
vain  thing — meet  for  history,  and  the  heart  of  its  great 
author,  when  the  terrible  tidings  came  to  his  ears,  was 
207 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

wrung  with  grief — fatal  grief.  In  the  bitterness  of  his 
despair,  he  cried  out  to  his  niece,  and  bid  her  "  ROLL 
UP  THE  MAP  OF  EUROPE";  there  was  a  little  more  of 
suffering,  and  at  last,  with  his  swollen  tongue  (so  they 
say)  still  muttering  something  for  England,  he  died  by 
the  noblest  of  all  sorrows. 

Lady  Hestsr,  meeting  the  calamity  in  her  own  fierce 
way,  seems  to  have  scorned  the  poor  island  that  had 
not  enough  of  God's  grace  to  keep  the  "  heaven-sent " 
Minister  alive.  I  can  hardly  tell  why  it  should  be,  but 
there  is  a  longing  for  the  East  very  commonly  felt  by 
proud  people,  when  goaded  by  sorrow.  Lady  Hester 
Stanhope  obeyed  this  impulse;  for  some  time,  I  believe, 
she  was  at  Constantinople,  and  there  her  magnificence 
as  well  as  her  near  alliance  to  the  late  Minister  gained 
her  great  influence.  Afterwards  she  passed  into  Syria. 

A.  W.  Kinglake 


Isopel  Berners  *^y       *^*       ^>       <^y       *cy       -o 

BUT  other  figures  were  now  already  upon  the  scene. 
Dashing  past  the  other  horse  and  cart,  which  by 
this  time  had  reached  the  bottom  of  the  pass,  appeared 
an  exceedingly  tall  woman,  or  rather  girl,  for  she  could 
scarcely  have  been  above  eighteen;  she  was  dressed  in 
a  tight  bodice  and  a  blue  stuff  gown ;  hat,  bonnet,  or 
cap  she  had  none,  and  her  hair,  which  was  flaxen,  hung 
down  on  her  shoulders  unconfined;  her  complexion  was 
fair,  and  her  features  handsome,  with  a  determined  but 
open  expression.  .  .  . 

In  the  evening  of  that  same  day   the   tall   girl  and  I 
sat  at  tea  by  the  fire,  at  the  bottom  of  the  dingle ;  the 
girl  on  a  small  stool,  and  myself,  as  usual,  upon  my  stone. 
208 


The  Adventurers 

The  water  which  served  for  the  tea  had  been  taken 
from  a  spring  of  pellucid  water  in  the  neighbourhood, 
which  I  had  not  had  the  good  fortune  to  discover, 
though  it  was  well  known  to  my  companion,  and  to  the 
wandering  people  who  frequented  the  dingle. 

"  This  tea  is  very  good,"  said  I,  "  but  I  cannot  enjoy  it 
as  much  as  if  I  were  well :  I  feel  very  sadly." 

"  How  else  should  you  feel,"  said  the  girl,  "  after 
fighting  with  the  Flaming  Tinman?  All  I  wonder  at 
is  that  you  can  feel  at  all!  As  for  the  tea,  it  ought  to  be 
good,  seeing  that  it  cost  me  ten  shillings  a  pound." 

"  That's  a  great  deal  for  a  person  in  your  station  to 
pay." 

"In  my  station!  I'd  have  you  to  know,  young  man 

however,  I  haven't  the  heart  to  quarrel  with  you,  you 

look  so  ill ;  and  after  all,  it  is  a  good  sum  for  one  to  pay 
who  travels  the  roads ;  but  if  I  must  have  tea,  I  like  to 
have  the  best ;  and  tea  I  must  have,  for  I  am  used  to 
it,  though  I  can't  help  thinking  that  it  sometimes  fills 
my  head  with  strange  fancies  —  what  some  folks  call 
vapours,  making  me  weep  and  cry." 

"Dear  me,"  said  I,  "I  should  never  have  thought 
that  one  of  your  size  and  fierceness  would  weep  and 
cry!" 

"My  size  and  fierceness!  I  tell  you  what,  young 
man,  you  are  not  over  civil  this  evening;  but  you  are 
ill,  as  I  said  before,  and  I  shan't  take  much  notice  of 
your  language,  at  least  for  the  present ;  as  for  my  size, 
I  am  not  so  much  bigger  than  yourself;  and  as  for  being 
fierce,  you  should  be  the  last  one  to  fling  that  at  me. 
It  is  well  for  you  that  I  can  be  fierce  sometimes.  If  I 
hadn't  taken  your  part  against  Blazing  Bosville,  you 
wouldn't  be  now  taking  tea  with  me."  .  .  . 

If  I  am  asked  how  we  passed  the  time  when  we  were 
P  209 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

together  in  the  dingle,  I  would  answer  that  we  passed 
the  time  very  tolerably,  all  things  considered;  we  con- 
versed together,  and  when  tired  of  conversing  I  would 
sometimes  give  Belle  a  lesson  in  Armenian ;  her 
progress  was  not  particularly  brilliant,  but  upon  the 
whole  satisfactory;  in  about  a  fortnight  she  had  hung 
up  one  hundred  Haikan  numerals  upon  the  hake  of  her 
memory.  I  found  her  conversation  highly  entertaining ; 
she  had  seen  much  of  England  and  Wales,  and  had 
been  acquainted  with  some  of  the  most  remarkable 
characters  who  travelled  the  roads  at  that  period;  and 
let  me  be  permitted  to  say  that  many  remarkable 
characters  have  travelled  the  roads  of  England,  of  whom 
fame  has  never  said  a  word.  I  loved  to  hear  her 
anecdotes  of  these  people ;  some  of  whom  I  found  had 
occasionally  attempted  to  lay  violent  hands  either  upon 
her  person  or  effects,  and  had  invariably  been  humbled  by 
her  without  the  assistance  of  either  justice  or  constable. 
I  could  clearly  see,  however,  that  she  was  rather  tired 
of  England,  and  wished  for  a  change  of  scene ;  she  was 
particularly  fond  of  talking  of  America,  to  which  country 
her  aspirations  chiefly  tended.  She  had  heard  much  of 
America,  which  had  excited  her  imagination ;  for  at  that 
time  America  was  much  talked  of,  on  roads  and  in 
homesteads  —  at  least,  so  said  Belle,  who  had  good 
opportunities  of  knowing  —  and  most  people  allowed  that 
it  was  a  good  country  for  adventurous  English.  The 
people  who  chiefly  spoke  against  it,  as  she  informed  me, 
were  soldiers  disbanded  upon  pensions,  the  sextons  of 
village  churches,  and  excisemen.  Belle  had  a  craving 
desire  to  visit  that  country,  and  to  wander  with  cart  and 
little  animal  amongst  its  forests  ;  when  I  would  occasion- 
ally object  that  she  would  be  exposed  to  danger  from 
strange  and  perverse  customers,  she  said  that  she  had 
210 


The  Adventurers 

not  wandered  the  roads  of  England  so  long  and  alone, 
to  be  afraid  of  anything  which  might  befall  in  America ; 
and  that  she  hoped,  with  God's  favour,  to  be  able  to 
take  her  own  part,  and  to  give  to  perverse  customers  as 
good  as  they  might  bring.  She  had  a  dauntless  heart, 
that  same  Belle.  Such  was  the  staple  of  Belle's  con- 
versation. As  for  mine,  I  would  endeavour  to  entertain 
her  with  strange  dreams  of  adventure,  in  which  I  figured 
in  opaque  forests,  strangling  wild  beasts,  or  discovering 
and  plundering  the  hoards  of  dragons;  and  sometimes 
I  would  narrate  to  her  other  things  far  more  genuine  — 
how  I  had  tamed  savage  mares,  wrestled  with  Satan, 
and  had  dealings  with  ferocious  publishers. 

George  Borrow 


211 


XIX 

THALIA    AND    MELPOMENE 

A  Singing-Girl      'Qy       ^y       "O       <^>       <^>       <^- 

BLUE-EYED     Musa,   the    sweet-voiced    nightingale, 
suddenly    this    little    grave    holds    voiceless,    and 
she  lies  like  a  stone  who  was  so  accomplished  and  so 
famous  ;  fair  Musa,  be  this  dust  light  over  thee  ! 

/.  W.  Mackail  (from  the  Greek  Anthology) 

Peg  Woffington  •^        <^        <^        ^>        <^> 

I 

MRS.  WOFFINGTON  is  a  downright  cheat,  a 
triumphant  plagiary.  She  first  steals  your 
heart,  and  then  laughs  at  you,  secure  of  your  applause. 
There  is  such  a  prepossession  arises  from  her  form ; 
such  a  witchcraft  in  her  beauty,  and  to  those  who  are 
personally  acquainted  with  her  such  an  absolute 
command  from  the  sweetness  of  her  disposition,  that  it 
is  almost  impossible  to  criticise  upon  her. 

Anon. 

212 


Thalia  and  Melpomene 
II 

THO'  Peggy's  charms  have  oft  been  sung, 
The  darling  theme  of  ev'ry  tongue, 
New  praises  still  remain ; 
Beauty  like  hers  may  well  infuse 
New  flights,  new  fancies,  like  a  Muse, 
And  brighten  ev'ry  strain. 

Tis  not  her  form  alone  I  prize, 
Which  ev'ry  fool  that  has  but  eyes. 

As  well  as  I,  can  see  : 
To  say  she's  fair  is  but  to  say, 
When  the  sun  shines  at  noon,  'tis  day, 

Which  none  need  learn  of  me. 

But  I'm  in  love  with  Peggy's  mind, 
Where  ev'ry  virtue  is  combin'd 

That  can  adorn  the  fair ; 
Excepting  one,  you  scarce  can  miss, 
So  trifling  that  you  would  not  wish 

That  virtue  had  been  there. 

She  who  possesses  all  the  rest 

Must  sure  excel  the  prude,  whose  breast 

That  virtue  shares  alone  : 
To  seek  perfection  is  a  jest ; 
They  who  have  fewest  faults  are  best, 

And  Peggy  has  but  one. 

David  Garrick 


213 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

Mrs.  Bracegirdle    <^y         o         *cy         ^y         *o 

MRS.  BRACEGIRDLE  was  now  but  just  blooming 
to  her  Maturity;  her  Reputation,  as  an  actress, 
gradually  rising  with  that  of  her  person ;  never  any 
Woman  was  in  such  general  Favour  of  her  Spectators, 
which,  to  the  last  Scene  of  her  Dramatick  Life,  she  main- 
tain'd,  by  not  being  unguarded  in  her  private  Character. 

This  Discretion  contributed,  not  a  little,  to  make  her 
the  Cara,  the  darling  of  the  theatre.  For  it  will  be  no 
extravagant  thing  to  say,  Scarce  an  Audience  saw  her, 
that  were  less  than  half  of  them  Lovers,  without  a 
suspected  Favourite  among  them :  and  tho'  she  might 
be  said  to  have  been  the  Universal  Passion,  and  under 
the  highest  Temptations,  her  Constancy  in  resisting 
them,  served  but  to  increase  the  number  of  her 
Admirers;  and  this  perhaps  you  will  more  easily 
believe,  when  I  extend  not  my  encomiums  on  her 
Person,  beyond  a  Sincerity  that  can  be  suspected ;  for 
she  had  no  greater  Claim  to  Beauty,  than  what  the  most 
desirable  Brunette  might  pretend  to.  But  her  youth, 
and  lively  Aspect,  threw  out  such  a  Glow  of  Health, 
and  Chearfulness,  that,  on  the  Stage,  few  Spectators  that 
were  not  past  it,  could  behold  her  without  Desire.  It  was 
even  a  Fashion  among  the  gay,  and  young,  to  have  a  Taste 
or  Tendre  for  Mrs.  Bracegirdle. 

Colley  Cibber 

Kitty  Clive        'Qy       ^>       *^>       ^>       o       "^>- 
I 

MRS.  CLIVE  in  the  sprightliness  of  humour  I  have 
never  seen  equalled.      What  Clive   did   best,  she 
did  better  than  Garrick  .  .  .  she  was  a  better  romp  than 
any  I  ever  saw  in  nature. 

Dr.  Johnson 
214 


Thalia  and  Melpomene 

II 

(~*  LIVE,  Sir,  is  a  good  thing  to  sit  by  :  she  always 
^^     understands  what  you  say. 

Dr.  Johnson 

III 

YET  from  her  eccentric  disposition,  strange,  eccentric 
temper,  and  frank  blunt  manner,  Mrs.  Clive  did  not 
always  go  off  with  quite  so  much  ecl&t  in  private  as  in 
public  life,  particularly  if  she  happened  to  be  crossed 
by  that  touchstone  of  temper,  gaming.  Quadrille  was 
proposed,  and  all  immediately  took  their  stations.  I 
soon  observed  Mrs.  dive's  countenance  alternately 
redden  and  turn  pale.  At  last  her  Manille  went,  and 
with  it  the  remnants  of  her  temper.  Her  face  was  of 
an  universal  crimson,  and  tears  of  rage  seemed  ready 
to  start  into  her  eyes.  At  that  very  moment,  as  Satan 
would  have  it,  her  opponent,  a  dowager,  whose  hoary 
head  and  eyebrows  were  as  white  as  those  of  an 
Albiness,  triumphantly  and  briskly  demanded  payment 
for  the  two  black  aces.  "  Two  black  aces  ! "  answered 
the  enraged  loser,  in  a  voice  rendered  almost  unin- 
telligible by  passion;  "here,  take  the  money,  though 
instead,  I  wish  I  could  give  you  two  black  eyes,  you  old 
white  cat!'1'1 

Frederick  Reynolds 

IV 

THE  latter  part  of  her  life  she  spent  in  retirement  at 
Strawberry  Hill,  where   she  was  a  neighbour  and 
friend  to  Horace  Walpole,  whose  effeminacy  she  helped  to 
keep  on  the  alert.     It  always  seems  to  us  as  if  she  had 
been  the  man  of  the  two  and  he  the  woman. 

Leigh  Hunt 
215 


The   Ladies'    Pageant 


X/'OU    never   saw    anything   so    droll  as    Mrs.  dive's 
-^       countenance,  between  the  heat  of  the  summer,  the 
pride  in  her  legacy,  and  the  efforts  to  appear  concerned. 

Horace  Walpole 

Mrs.  Siddons       <^y       <>y       ^y       -^       ^y       <v, 


WE  trust  that  we  have  too  much  good  sense  to 
attempt  painting  a  picture  of  Sarah  Siddons. 
In  her  youth  it  is  said  she  was  beautiful,  even  lovely, 
and  won  men's  hearts  as  Rosalind.  But  beauty  is  a 
fading  flower;  it  faded  from  her  face  ere  one  wrinkle 
had  touched  that  fixed  paleness  which  seldom  was  tinged 
with  any  colour,  even  in  the  whirlwind  of  passion.  Light 
came  and  went  across  those  finest  features  at  the  coming 
or  going  of  each  feeling  and  thought ;  but  faint  was  the 
change  of  hue  ever  visible  on  that  glorious  marble.  It 
was  the  magnificent  countenance  of  an  animated  statue, 
in  the  stillness  of  its  idealized  beauty  instinct  with  all 
the  emotions  of  our  mortal  life.  Idealized  beauty  !  Did 
we  not  say  that  beauty  had  faded  from  her  face?  Yes, 
but  it  was  overspread  with  a  kindred  expression,  for 
which  we  withhold  the  name  only  because  it  seemed 
more  divine,  inspiring  awe  that  overpowered  while  it 
mingled  with  delight,  more  than  regal  —  say  rather, 
immortal.  Such  an  image  surely  had  never  before 
trod,  nor  ever  again  will  tread,  the  enchanted  floor. 
In  all  stateliest  shows  of  waking  woe  she  dwindled  the 
stateliest  into  insignificance ;  her  majesty  made  others 
mean ;  in  her  sunlike  light  all  stars  "  paled  their  in- 
216 


Thalia  and  Melpomene 

effectual  fires."  But  none  knew  the  troubled  grandeur 
of  guilt  till  they  saw  her  in  Lady  Macbeth,  walking  in 
her  sleep,  and  as  she  wrung  her  hands,  striving  in  vain 
to  wash  from  her  the  engrained  murder,  "  Not  all  the 
perfumes  of  Arabia  could  sweeten  this  little  hand  !" 
The  whisper  came  as  from  the  hollow  grave :  and  more 
hideously  haunted  than  ever  was  the  hollow  grave,  seemed 
then  to  be  the  cell  of  her  heart!  Shakspeare's  self  had 
learned  something  then  from  a  sight  of  Siddons. 

John   Wilson 

II 

THE  homage  she  has  received  is  greater  than  that 
which  is  paid  to  Queens.  The  enthusiasm  she  ex- 
cited had  something  idolatrous  about  it ;  she  was  regarded 
less  with  admiration  than  with  wonder,  as  if  a  being  of 
a  superior  order  had  dropped  from  another  sphere  to 
awe  the  world  with  the  majesty  of  her  appearance.  She 
raised  Tragedy  to  the  skies,  or  brought  it  down  from 
thence.  It  was  something  above  nature.  We  can  con- 
ceive of  nothing  grander.  She  embodied  to  our  imagina- 
tion the  fables  of  mythology,  of  the  heroic  and  deified 
mortals  of  elder  time.  She  was  not  less  than  a  goddess, 
or  than  a  prophetess  inspired  by  the  gods.  Power  was 
seated  on  her  brow,  passion  emanated  from  her  breast 
as  from  a  shrine.  She  was  Tragedy  personified.  She 
was  the  stateliest  ornament  of  the  public  mind.  She 
was  not  only  the  idol  of  the  people,  she  not  only  hushed 
the  tumultuous  shouts  of  the  pit  in  breathless  expectation, 
and  quenched  the  blaze  of  surrounding  beauty  in  silent 
tears,  but  to  the  retired  and  lonely  student,  through  long 
years  of  solitude,  her  face  has  shone  as  if  an  eye  had 
appeared  from  heaven ;  her  name  has  been  as  if  a  voice 
had  opened  the  chambers  of  the  human  heart,  or  as  if 
217 


The   Ladies'    Pageant 

a  trumpet  had  awakened  the  sleeping  and  the  dead.     To 
have  seen  Mrs.  Siddons  was  an  event  in  every  one's  life. 

W.  Hazlitt 


Mrs.  Jordan 


was  one  comic  actress,  who  was  Nature 
*~  herself  in  one  of  her  most  genial  forms.  This 
was  Mrs.  Jordan  ;  who,  though  she  was  neither  beautiful, 
nor  handsome,  nor  even  pretty,  nor  accomplished,  nor 
"a  lady,"  nor  anything  conventional  or  comine  il  faut 
whatsoever,  yet  was  so  pleasant,  so  cordial,  so  natural, 
so  full  of  spirits,  so  healthily  constituted  in  mind  and 
body,  had  such  a  shapely  leg  withal,  so  charming  a  voice, 
and  such  a  happy  and  happy-making  expression  of  coun- 
tenance, that  she  appeared  something  superior  to  all 
those  requirements  of  acceptability,  and  to  hold  a  patent 
from  Nature  herself  for  our  delight  and  good  opinion.  It 
is  creditable  to  the  feelings  of  society  in  general,  that 
allowances  are  made  for  the  temptations  to  which  the 
stage  exposes  the  sex;  and  in  Mrs.  Jordan's  case  these 
were  not  diminished  by  a  sense  of  the  like  consideration 
due  to  princely  restrictions,  and  to  the  manifest  domestic 
dispositions  of  more  parties  than  one.  But  she  made 
even  Methodists  love  her.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Jordan  was  in- 
imitable in  exemplifying  the  consequences  of  too  much 
restraint  in  ill-educated  Country  Girls,  in  Romps,  in 
Hoydens,  and  in  Wards  on  whom  the  mercenary  have 
designs.  She  wore  a  bib  and  tucker  and  pinafore,  with 
a  bouncing  propriety,  fit  to  make  the  boldest  spectator 
alarmed  at  the  idea  of  bringing  such  a  household  re- 
sponsibility on  his  shoulders.  To  see  her  when  thus 
attired  shed  blubbering  tears  for  some  disappointment, 
218 


Thalia  and   Melpomene 

and  eat  all  the  while  a  great  thick  slice  of  bread  and 
butter,  weeping,  and  moaning,  and  munching,  and  eyeing 
at  every  bite  the  part  she  meant  to  bite  next,  was  a 
lesson  against  will  and  appetite  worth  a  hundred  sermons 
of  our  friends  on  board  the  hoy ;  and,  on  the  other  hand, 
they  could  assuredly  have  done  and  said  nothing  at  all 
calculated  to  make  such  an  impression  in  favour  of 
amiableness  as  she  did,  when  she  acted  in  gentle, 
generous,  and  confiding  characters.  The  way  in  which 
she  would  take  a  friend  by  the  cheek  and  kiss  her,  or 
make  up  a  quarrel  with  a  lover,  or  coax  a  guardian  into 
good-humour,  or  sing  (without  accompaniment)  the  song 
of  "  Since  then  I'm  doom'd,"  or  "  In  the  dead  of  the 
night,"  trusting,  as  she  had  a  right  to  do,  and  as  the 
house  wished  her  to  do,  to  the  sole  effect  of  her  sweet, 
mellow,  and  loving  voice  —  the  reader  will  pardon  me, 
but  tears  of  pleasure  and  regret  come  into  my  eyes  at 
the  recollection,  as  if  she  personified  whatsoever  was 
happy  at  that  period  of  life,  and  which  has  gone  like 
herself.  The  very  sound  of  the  little  familiar  word  bud 
from  her  lips  (the  abbreviation  of  husband),  as  she  packed 
it  closer,  as  it  were,  in  the  utterance,  and  pouted  it  up 
with  fondness  in  the  man's  face,  taking  him  at  the  same 
time  by  the  chin,  was  a  whole  concentrated  world  of  the 
power  of  loving. 

Leigh  Hunt 


Mrs.  Sheridan        <^y      xc>      *^y      ^>      <^      ^> 

I 

HER   exquisite  and   delicate   loveliness,  all  the   more 
fascinating  for  the  tender  sadness   which  seemed, 
as   a   contemporary   describes  it,  to  project  over  her  the 
219 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

shadow  of  early  death,  her  sweet  voice,  and  the  pathetic 
expression  of  her  singing,  the  timid  and  touching  grace 
of  her  air  and  deportment,  had  won  universal  admiration 
for  Eliza  Ann  Linley.  From  the  days  when,  a  girl  of 
nine,  she  stood  with  her  little  basket  at  the  pump-room 
door,  timidly  offering  the  tickets  for  her  father's  benefit 
concerts,  to  those  when,  in  her  teens,  she  was  the  belle  of 
the  Bath  assemblies,  none  could  resist  her  beseeching  grace. 

C.  R.  Leslie 

II 

THERE  has  seldom  perhaps  existed  a  finer  combination 
of  all  those  qualities  that  attract  both  eye  and  heart 
than  this  accomplished  and  lovely  person  exhibited.  To 
judge  by  what  we  hear,  it  was  impossible  to  see  her  without 
admiration,  or  know  her  without  love ;  and  a  late  Bishop 
used  to  say  that  "  she  seemed  to  him  the  connecting  link 
between  woman  and  angel."  The  devotedness  of  affec- 
tion, too,  with  which  she  was  regarded,  not  only  by  her 
own  father  and  sisters,  but  by  all  her  husband's  family, 
showed  that  her  fascination  was  of  that  best  kind  which, 
like  charity,  "  begins  at  home,"  and  that  while  her  beauty 
and  music  enchanted  the  world,  she  had  charms  more 
intrinsic  and  lasting  for  those  who  came  nearer  to  her. 

Thomas  Moore 


Malibran         ^>        ^y        <^x        *^y        o        ^y 

MADAME    MALIBRAN    was    always    an    object  of 
the   greatest  interest  to  me,  not  only  on  account 
of   her    extraordinary    genius,    and    great    and    various 
gifts,   but     because    of    the     many     details    I    heard   of 
her  youth  from  M.  de  la  Forest,  the   French   Consul  in 
220 


Thalia  and  Melpomene 

New  York,  who  knew  her  as  Marie  Garcia,  and  a  wild 
and  wayward  but  most  wonderful  girl,  under  her  father's 
most  tyrannical  and  harsh  rule  during  the  time  they 
spent  in  the  United  States.  He  said  that  there  was 
not  a  piece  of  furniture  in  their  apartment  that  had  not 
been  thrown  at  his  daughter's  head,  in  the  course  of 
the  moral  and  artistic  training  he  bestowed  upon  her. 
It  is  perhaps  wonderful  that  success  in  either  direction 
should  have  been  the  result  of  such  a  system ;  but,  upon 
the  whole,  the  singer  seems  to  have  profited  more  than 
the  woman  from  it,  as  might  have  been  expected. 
Garcia  was  an  incomparable  artist,  actor,  and  singer 
(no  such  Don  Giovanni  has  ever  been  seen  or  heard  since), 
and  bestowed  upon  all  his  children  the  finest  musical 
education  that  ever  made  great  natural  gifts  available 
to  the  utmost  to  their  possessors.  I  suppose  it  was  from 
him,  too,  that  Marie  derived  with  her  Spanish  blood  the 
vehement,  uncontrollable  nature  of  which  M.  de  la  Forest 
told  me  he  had  witnessed  such  extraordinary  exhibitions 
in  her  girlhood.  He  said  she  would  fly  into  a  passion 
of  rage,  in  which  she  would  set  her  teeth  in  the  sleeve 
of  her  silk  gown,  and  tear  and  rend  great  pieces  out  of  the 
thick  texture  as  if  it  were  muslin ;  a  test  of  the  strength 
of  those  beautiful  teeth,  as  well  as  of  the  fury  of  her  passion. 
She  then  would  fall  rigid  on  the  floor,  without  motion, 
breath,  pulse,  or  colour,  though  not  fainting,  in  a  sort  of 
catalepsy  of  rage. 

Her  marriage  with  the  old  French  merchant  Malibran 
was  speedily  followed  by  their  separation ;  he  went  to 
France,  leaving  his  divine  devil  of  a  wife  in  New  York, 
and  during  his  absence  she  used  to  write  letters  to  him, 
which  she  frequently  showed  to  M.  de  la  Forest,  who 
was  her  intimate  friend  and  adviser,  and  took  a  paternal 
interest  in  her  affairs. 


The   Ladies'    Pageant 

These  epistles  often  expressed  so  much  cordial  kind- 
ness and  warmth  of  feeling  towards  her  husband,  that 
M.  de  la  Forest,  who  knew  her  separation  from  him  to 
have  been  entirely  her  own  act  and  choice,  and  any 
decent  agreement  and  harmonious  life  between  them 
absolutely  impossible,  was  completely  puzzled  by  such 
professions  towards  a  man  with  whom  she  was  deter- 
mined never  to  live,  and  occasionally  said  to  her,  "  What 
do  you  mean?  Do  you  wish  your  husband  to  come  here 
to  you  ?  or  do  you  contemplate  going  to  him  ?  In 
short,  what  is  your  intention  in  writing  with  all  this 
affection  to  a  man  from  whom  you  have  separated 
yourself  ?  " 

Upon  this  view  of  her  epistle,  which  did  not  appear 
to  have  struck  her,  M.  de  la  Forest  said,  she  would 
(instead  of  rewriting  it)  tack  on  to  it,  with  the  most 
ludicrous  inconsistency,  a  sort  of  revocatory  codicil,  in 
the  shape  of  a  postscript,  expressing  her  decided  desire 
that  her  husband  should  remain  where  he  was,  and  her 
own  explicit  determination  never  again  to  enter  into 
any  more  intimate  relations  with  him  than  were  com- 
patible with  a  correspondence  from  opposite  sides  of  the 
Atlantic,  whatever  personal  regard  or  affection  for  him 
her  letter  might  appear  to  express  to  the  contrary  not- 
withstanding. 

To  my  great  regret,  I  saw  her  only  once  act,  though 
I  heard  her  sing  at  concerts  and  in  private  repeatedly. 
My  only  personal  encounter  with  her  took  place  in  a 
curious  fashion.  My  father  and  myself  were  acting  at 
Manchester,  and  had  just  finished  performing  the  parts 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Beverley,  one  night,  in  "  The  Gamester." 
On  returning  from  the  theatre,  as  I  was  slowly  and  in 
considerable  exhaustion  following  my  father  up  the  hotel 
stairs,  as  we  reached  the  landing  by  our  sitting-room,  a 

222 


Thalia  and   Melpomene 

door  immediately  opposite  to  it  flew  open,  and  a  lady 
dressed  all  in  white  muslin,  rushed  out  of  it,  and  fell 
hysterically :  "  Oh,  Mr.  Kembel,  my  deare,  deare  Mr. 
Kembel ! "  This  was  Madame  Malibran,  under  the 
effect  of  my  father's  performance  of  the  Gamester,  which 
she  had  just  witnessed.  "  Come,  come,1'  quoth  my 
father  (who  was  old  enough  to  have  been  her's,  and 
knew  her  very  well),  patting  her  consolingly  on  the  back, 
"  Come  now,  my  dear  Madame  Malibran,  now,  Marie, 
don't,  my  child!  "  all  which  was  taking  place  on  the  pub- 
lic staircase  while  I  looked  on  in  wide-eyed  amazement 
behind. 

Fanny  Kemble 


Rachel 


T^VERYBODY  here  is  now  raving  about  her.  I  have 
•• — '  only  seen  her  once  on  the  stage,  and  heard  her  de- 
claim at  Stafford  House,  the  morning  of  the  concert  for 
the  Poles.  Her  appearance  is  very  striking :  she  is  of 
a  very  good  height;  too  thin  for  beauty,  but  not  for 
dignity  or  grace ;  her  want  of  chest  and  breadth  indeed 
almost  suggest  a  tendency  to  pulmonary  disease,  coupled 
with  her  pallor  and  her  youth  (she  is  only  just  twenty). 
Her  voice  is  the  most  remarkable  of  her  natural  quali- 
fications for  her  vocation,  being  the  deepest  and  most 
sonorous  voice  I  ever  heard  from  a  woman's  lips:  it 
wants  brilliancy,  variety,  and  tenderness ;  but  it  is  like 
a  fine  deep-toned  bell,  and  expresses  admirably  the 
passions  in  the  delineation  of  which  she  excels  —  scorn, 
hatred,  revenge,  vitriolic  irony,  concentrated  rage,  seeth- 
ing jealousy,  and  a  fierce  love  which  seems  in  its  excess 
223 


The   Ladies'    Pageant 


allied  to  all  the  evil  which  sometimes  springs  from  that 
bitter-sweet  root. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  first  time  I  ever  heard 
Mademoiselle  Rachel  speak.  I  was  acting  my  old  part 
of  Julia,  in  "The  Hunchback,"  at  Lady  Ellesmere's,  where 
the  play  was  got  up  for  an  audience  of  her  friends,  ind 
for  her  special  gratification.  The  room  was  darkened, 
with  the  exception  of  our  stage,  and  I  had  no  means  of 
discriminating  anybody  among  my  audience,  which  was, 
as  became  an  assembly  of  such  distinguished  persons, 
decorously  quiet  and  undemonstrative.  But  in  one  of 
the  scenes,  where  the  foolish  heroine,  in  the  midst  of  her 
vulgar  triumph  at  the  Earl  of  Rochedale's  proposal,  is 
suddenly  overcome  by  the  remorseful  recollection  of  her 
love  for  Clifford,  and  almost  lets  the  Earl's  letter  fall 
from  her  trembling  hands,  I  heard  a  voice  out  of  the 
darkness,  and  it  appeared  to  me  almost  close  to  my  feet, 
exclaiming,  in  a  tone  the  vibrating  depth  of  which  I  shall 
never  forget,  "Ah,  bien,  trh  bien !  " 

Mademoiselle  Rachel's  face  is  very  expressive  and 
dramatically  fine,  though  not  absolutely  beautiful.  It 
is  a  long  oval,  with  a  head  of  classical  and  very  graceful 
contour ;  the  forehead  rather  narrow  and  not  very  high ; 
the  eyes  small,  dark,  deep-set,  and  terribly  powerful ; 
the  brow  straight,  noble,  and  fine  in  form,  though  not 
very  flexible. 

Fanny  Kemble 

II 

IN  Paris  all  look'd  hot  and  like  to  fade. 
Sere,  in  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries, 
Sere  with  September,  droop'd  the  chestnut-trees. 
'Twas  dawn ;  a  brougham  roll'd  through  the  streets  and 
made 

224 


Thalia  and    Melpomene 

Halt  at  the  white  and  silent  colonnade 

Of  the  French  Theatre.     Worn  with  disease, 

Rachel,  with  eyes  no  gazing  can  appease, 

Sate  in  the  brougham  and  those  blank  walls  survey'd. 

She  follows  the  gay  world,  whose  swarms  have  fled 
To  Switzerland,  to  Baden,  to  the  Rhine ; 
Why  stops  she  by  this  empty  playhouse  drear? 

Ah,  where  the  spirit  its  highest  life  hath  led, 
All  spots,  match'd  with  that  spot,  are  less  divine ; 
And  Rachel's  Switzerland,  her  Rhine,  is  here  ! 

Unto  a  lonely  villa,  in  a  dell 

Above  the  fragrant  warm  Provencal  shore, 

The  dying  Rachel  in  a  chair  they  bore 

Up  the  steep  pine-plumed  paths  of  the  Estrelle, 

And  laid  her  in  a  stately  room,  where  fell 
The  shadow  of  a  marble  Muse  of  yore, 
The  rose-crown'd  queen  of  legendary  lore, 
Polymnia,  full  on  her  death-bed.  — 'Twas  well  ! 

The  fret  and  misery  of  our  northern  towns, 
In  this  her  life's  last  day,  our  poor,  our  pain, 
Our  jangle  of  false  wits,  our  climate's  frowns, 

Do  for  this  radiant  Greek-soul'd  artist  cease ; 
Sole  object  of  her  dying  eyes  remain 
The  beauty  and  the  glorious  art  of  Greece. 

Sprung  from  the  blood  of  Israel's  scatter'd  race, 
At  a  mean  inn  in  German  Aarau  born, 
To  forms  from  antique  Greece  and  Rome  uptorn, 
Trick'd  out  with  a  Parisian  speech  and  face, 
Q  225 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

Imparting  life  renew'd.  old  classic  grace, 

Then,  soothing  with  thy  Christian  strain  forlorn, 

A-Kempis  !  her  departing  soul  outworn, 

While  by  her  bedside  Hebrew  rites  have  place  — 

Ah,  not  the  radiant  spirit  of  Greece  alone 

She  had — one  power,  which  made  her  breast  its  home  ! 

In  her,  like  us,  there  clasVd,  contending  powers, 

Germany,  France,  Christ,  Moses,  Athens,  Rome. 
The  strife ;  the  mixture  in  her  soul,  are  ours ; 
Her  genius  and  her  glory  are  her  own. 

Matthew  Arnold 


226 


XX 

ADDISON    AND   STEELE'S 
GALLERY 


Leonora          ^ix        ^y        *^y        -^y        *^y       "Cx 

SOME  Months  ago,  my  Friend  Sir  ROGER,  being  in 
the  Country,  enclosed  a  Letter  to  me,  directed  to 
a  certain  Lady  whom  I  shall  here  call  by  the  Na.me  of 
Leonora,  and  as  it  contained  Matters  of  Consequence, 
desired  me  to  deliver  it  to  her  with  my  own  Hand.  Ac- 
cordingly I  waited  upon  her  Ladyship  pretty  early  in  the 
Morning,  and  was  desired  by  her  Woman  to  walk  into 
her  Lady's  Library,  till  such  time  as  she  was  in  a  Readi- 
ness to  receive  me.  The  very  Sound  of  a  Lady^s  Library 
gave  me  a  great  Curiosity  to  see  it ;  and  as  it  was  some 
time  before  the  Lady  came  to  me/ 1  had  an  Opportunity  of 
turning  over  a  great  many  of  her  Books,  which  were  ranged 
together  in  a  very  beautiful  Order.  At  the  End  of  the 
Folios  (which  were  finely  bound  and  gilt)  were  great  Jars 
of  China  placed  one  above  another  in  a  very  noble  Piece 
of  Architecture.  The  Quartos  were  separated  from  the 
Octavos  by  a  Pile  of  smaller  Vessels,  which  rose  in  a 
delightful  Pyramid.  The  Octavos  were  bounded  by  Tea 
Dishes  of  all  Shapes,  Colours  and  Sizes,  which  were  so 
disposed  on  a  wooden  Frame,  that  they  looked  like  one 
continued  Pillar  indented  with  the  finest  Strokes  of 
227 


The  Ladies'  Pageant 

Sculpture,  and  stained  with  the  greatest  Variety  of 
Dyes.  That  Part  of  the  Library  which  was  designed 
for  the  Reception  of  Plays  and  Pamphlets,  and  other 
loose  Papers,  was  enclosed  in  a  kind  of  Square,  consist- 
ing of  one  of  the  prettiest  Grotesque  Works  that  ever  I 
saw,  and  made  up  of  Scaramouches,  Lions,  Monkies, 
Mandarines,  Trees,  Shells,  and  a  thousand  other  odd 
Figures  in  China  Ware.  In  the  midst  of  the  Room  was 
a  little  Japan  Table,  with  a  Quire  of  gilt  Paper  upon  it, 
and  on  the  Paper  a  Silver  Snuff-box  made  in  the  Shape 
of  a  little  Book.  I  found  there  were  several  other 
Counterfeit  Books  upon  the  upper  Shelves,  which  were 
carved  in  Wood,  and  served  only  to  fill  up  the  Number, 
like  Fagots  in  the  muster  of  a  Regiment.  I  was  wonder- 
fully pleased  with  such  a  mixt  kind  of  Furniture,  as  seemed 
very  suitable  both  to  the  Lady  and  the  Scholar,  and 'did 
not  know  at  first  whether  I  should  fancy  my  self  in  a 
Grotto,  or  in  a  Library. 

Upon  my  looking  into  the  Books,  I  found  there  were 
some  few  which  the  Lady  had  bought  for  her  own  use, 
but  that  most  of  them  had  been  got  together,  either 
because  she  had  heard  them  praised,  or  because  she 
had  seen  the  Authors  of  them.  Among  several  that  I 
examin'd,  I  very  well  remember  these  that  follow. 

Ogleby^s  Virgil. 
Dry  den's  Juvenal. 
Cassandra. 
Cleopatra. 
Astrtza. 

Sir  Isaac  Newtorfs  Works. 

The  Grand  Cyrus:  With  a  Pin  stuck  in  one  of  the 
middle  Leaves. 

Pembroke 's  Arcadia. 

22% 


Addison  and  Steele's  Gallery 

Locke  of  Human  Understanding:  With  a  Paper  of 
Patches  in  it. 

A  Spelling-Book.       > 

A  Dictionary  for  the  Explanation  of  hard  Words. 

Sherlock  upon  Death. 

The  fifteen  Comforts  of  Matrimony. 

Sir  William  Temple's  Essays. 

Father  Malbranchfs  Search  after  Truth,  translated 
into  English. 

A  Book  of  Novels. 

The  Academy  of  Compliments. 

Culpepper's  Midwifry. 

The  Ladies'  Calling. 

Tales  in  Verse  by  Mr.  Durfey:  Bound  in  Red 
Leather,  gilt  on  the  Back,  and  doubled  down  in  several 
Places. 

All  the  Classick  Authors  in  Wood. 

A  set  of  Elzevers  by  the  same  Hand. 

delta :  Which  opened  of  it  self  in  the  Place  that 
describes  two  Lovers  in  a  Bower. 

Baker's  Chronicle. 

Advice  to  a  Daughter. 

The  New  Atalantis,  with  a  Key  to  it. 

Mr.  SteePs  Christian  Heroe. 

A  Prayer  Book :  With  a  Bottle  of  Hungary  Water  by 
the  side  of  it. 

Dr.  SachevereWs  Speech. 

Fielding 's  Tryal. 

Seneca^s  Morals. 

Taylor's  holy  Living  and  Dying. 

La  Ferte^s  Instructions  for  Country  Dances. 

Leonora  was  formerly  a  celebrated  Beauty,  and  is  still 
a  very  lovely  Woman.     She  has  been  a  Widow  for  two 
229 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

or  three  Years,  and  being  unfortunate  in  her  first  Marriage, 
has  taken  a  Resolution  never  to  venture  upon  a  second. 
She  has  no  Children  to  take  care  of,  and  leaves  the 
Management  of  her  Estate  to  my  good  Friend  Sir  ROGER. 
But  as  the  Mind  naturally  sinks  into  a  kind  of  Lethargy, 
and  falls  asleep,  that  is  not  agitated  by  some  Favourite 
Pleasures  and  Pursuits,  Leonora  has  turned  all  the 
Passions  of  her  Sex  into  a  Love  of  Books  and  Retire- 
ment. She  converses  chiefly  with  Men  (as  she  has  often 
said  herself),  but  it  is  only  in  their  Writings  ;  and  admits 
of  very  few  Male-Visitants,  except  my  Friend  Sir  ROGER, 
whom  she  hears  with  great  Pleasure,  and  without  Scandal. 
As  her  Reading  has  lain  very  much  among  Romances, 
it  has  given  her  a  very  particular  Turn  of  Thinking,  and 
discovers  it  self  even  in  her  House,  her  Gardens,  and  her 
Furniture.  Sir  ROGER  has  entertained  me  an  Hour 
together  with  a  Description  of  her  Country-Seat,  which 
is  situated  in  a  kind  of  Wilderness,  about  an  hundred 
Miles  distant  from  London,  and  looks  like  a  little 
Enchanted  Palace.  The  Rocks  about  her  are  shaped 
into  Artificial  Grottoes  covered  with  Wood-Bines  and 
Jessamines.  The  Woods  are  cut  into  shady  Walks, 
twisted  into  Bowers,  and  filled  with  Cages  of  Turtles. 
The  Springs  are  made  to  run  among  Pebbles,  and  by 
that  means  taught  to  Murmur  very  agreeably.  They  are 
likewise  collected  into  a  Beautiful  Lake ;  that  is  Inhabited 
by  a  Couple  of  Swans,  and  empties  it  self  by  a  little 
Rivulet  which  runs  through  a  Green  Meadow,  and  is 
known  in  the  Family  by  the  Name  of  The  Purling 
Stream.  The  Knight  likewise  tells  me,  that  this  Lady 
preserves  her  Game  better  than  any  of  the  Gentlemen  in 
the  Country,  not  (says  Sir  ROGER)  that  she  sets  so  great 
a  Value  upon  her  Partridges  and  Pheasants,  as  upon 
her  Larks  and  Nightingales.  For  she  says  that 
230 


Addison  and  Steele's  Gallery 

every  Bird  which  is  killed  in  her  Ground,  will  spoil  a 
Consort,  and  that  she  shall  certainly  miss  him  the 
next  Year. 

Joseph  Addison 


Clarinda  ^>       -o       *Qy        <Qy       -^       <^x 

T~\EAR  Mr.  SPECTATOR,  —  You  having  set  your  Read- 
JL-/  ers  an  Exercise  in  one  of  your  last  Week's  Papers, 
I  have  perform'd  mine  according  to  your  Orders,  and 
herewith  send  it  you  enclosed.  You  must  know,  Mr. 
SPECTATOR,  that  I  am  a  Maiden  Lady  of  a  good 
Fortune,  who  have  had  several  Matches  offered  me  for 
these  ten  Years  last  past,  and  have  at  present  warm 
Applications  made  to  me  by  a  very  pretty  Fellow.  As 
I  am  at  my  own  Disposal,  I  come  up  to  Town  every 
Winter,  and  pass  my  Time  in  it  after  the  manner  you 
will  find  in  the  following  Journal,  which  I  begun  to 
write  upon  the  very  Day  after  your  Spectator  upon  that 
Subject. 

TUESDAY  Night.  Could  not  go  to  sleep  till  one  in  the 
Morning  for  thinking  of  my  journal. 

WEDNESDAY.  From  Eight  till  Ten,  Drank  two 
Dishes  of  Chocolate  in  Bed,  and  fell  asleep  after  'em. 

From  Ten  to  Eleven.  Eat  a  Slice  of  Bread  and  Butter, 
drank  a  Dish  of  Bohea,  read  the  Spectator. 

From  Eleven  to  One.  At  my  Toilet,  try'd  a  new  Head. 
Gave  Orders  for  Veny  to  be  combed  and  washed.  Mem. 
I  look  best  in  Blue. 

From   One  till  Half  an  Hour  after  Two.     Drove  to 
the  ''Change.     Cheapned  a  Couple  of  Fans. 
231 


The   Ladies'   Pageant 


Till  Four.  At  Dinner.  Mem,  Mr.  Froth  passed  by 
in  his  new  Liveries. 

From  Four  to  Six.  Dressed,  paid  a  Visit  tc  old  Lady 
Blithe  and  her  Sister,  having  before  heard  they  were  gone 
out  of  Town  that  Day. 

From  Six  to  Eleven.  At  Basset.  Mem.  Never  set 
again  upon  the  Ace  of  Diamonds. 

THURSDAY.  From  Eleven  at  Night  to  Eight  in  the 
Morning.  Dream'd  that  I  punted  to  Mr.  Froth. 

From  Eight  to  Ten.  Chocolate.  Read  two  Acts  in 
Aurenzebe  abed. 

From  Ten  to  Eleven.  Tea-Table.  Sent  to  borrow 
Lady  Faddle's  Cupid  for  Veny.  Read  the  Play-Bills. 
Received  a  Letter  from  Mr.  Froth.  Mem.  Locked  it 
up  in  my  strong  Box. 

Rest  of  the  Morning.  Fontange,  the  Tirewoman,  her 
Account  of  my  Lady  Blithers  Wash.  Broke  a  Tooth  in 
my  little  Tortoise-shell  Comb.  Sent  Frank  to  know 
how  my  Lady  Hectick  rested  after  her  Monky's  leaping 
out  at  Window.  Looked  pale.  Fontange  tells  me  my 
Glass  is  not  true.  Dressed  by  Three. 

From  Three  to  Four.  Dinner  cold  before  I  sat 
down. 

From  Four  to  Eleven.  Saw  Company.  Mr.  Froth' ]s 
Opinion  of  Milton.  His  Account  of  the  Mohocks.  His 
Fancy  for  a  Pin-cushion.  Picture  in  the  Lid  of  his  Snuff- 
box. Old  Lady  Faddle  promises  me  her  Woman  to  cut 
my  Hair.  Lost  five  Guineas  at  Crimp. 

Twelve  a-Clock  at  Night.     Went  to  Bed. 

i 

FRIDAY.  Eight  in  the  Morning.  Abed.  Read  over 
all  Mr.  Froths  Letters.  Cupid  and  Veny. 

Ten  a-Clock.     Stay'd  within  all  day,  not  at  home. 
232 


Addison  and  Steele's  Gallery 

From  Ten  to  Twelve,  In  Conference  with  my  Mantua- 
Maker.  Sorted  a  Suit  of  Ribbands.  Broke  my  Blue 
China  Cup. 

From  Twelve  to  One.  Shut  my  self  up  in  my  Chamber, 
practised  Lady  Betty  Modetys  Skuttle. 

One  in  the  Afternoon.  Called  for  my  flowered  Hand- 
kerchief. Worked  half  a  Violet-Leaf  in  it.  Eyes  aked  and 
Head  out  of  Order.  Threw  by  my  Work,  and  read  over 
the  remaining  Part  of  Aurenzebe. 

From  Three  to  Four.     Dined. 

From  Four  to  Twelve.  Changed  my  Mind,  dressed, 
went  abroad,  and  play'd  at  Crimp  till  Midnight.  Found 
Mrs.  Spitely  at  home.  Conversation:  Mrs.  Brilliants 
Necklace  false  Stones.  Old  Lady  Loveday  going  to  be 
married  to  a  young  Fellow  that  is  not  worth  a  Groat. 
Miss  Prue  gone  into  the  Country.  Tom  Townley  has  red 
Hair.  Mem.  Mrs.  Spitely  whispered  in  my  Ear  that  she 
had  something  to  tell  me  about  Mr.  Froth ;  I  am  sure  it  is 
not  true. 

Between  Twelve  and  One.  Dreamed  that  Mr.  Froth 
lay  at  my  Feet,  and  called  me  Indamora. 

SATURDAY.  Rose  at  Eight  a-Clock  in  the  Morning. 
Sate  down  to  my  Toilet. 

From  Eight  to  Nine.  Shifted  a  Patch  for  Half  an  Hour 
before  I  could  determine  it.  Fixed  it  above  my  left  Eye- 
brow. 

From  Nine  to  Twelve.     Drank  my  Tea,  and  dressed.    , 

From  Twelve  to  Two.  At  Chappel.  A  great  deal  of 
good  Company.  Mem.  The  third  Air  in  the  new  Opera. 
Lady  Blithe  dressed  frightfully. 

From  Three  to  Four.  Dined.  Miss  Kitty  called 
upon  me  to  go  to  the  Opera  before  I  was  risen  from 
Table. 

233 


The   Ladies'   Pageant 

From  Dinner  to  Six.  Drank  Tea.  Turned  off  a  Foot- 
man for  being  rude  to  Veny. 

Six  a-Clock.  Went  to  the  Opera.  I  did  not  see  Mr. 
Froth  till  the  beginning  of  the  second  Act.  Mr.  Froth 
talked  to  a  Gentleman  in  a  black  Wig.  Bowed  to  a 
Lady  in  the  front  Box.  Mr.  Froth  and  his  Friend  clapp'd 
Nicolini  in  the  third  Act.  Mr.  Froth  cried  out  Ancora. 
Mr.  Froth  led  me  to  my  Chair.  I  think  he  squeezed  my 
Hand. 

Eleven  at  Night.  Went  to  Bed.  Melancholy  Dreams. 
Methought  Nicolini  said  he  was  Mr.  Froth. 

SUNDAY.     Indisposed. 

MONDAY.  Eight  a-Clock.  Waked  by  Miss  Kitty. 
Aurenzebe  lay  upon  the  Chair  by  me.  Kitty  repeated 
without  Book  the  Eight  best  Lines  in  the  Play.  Went 
in  our  Mobbs  to  the  dumb  Man,  according  to  Appoint- 
ment. Told  me  that  my  Lover's  Name  began  with  a  G. 
Mem.  the  Conjurer  was  within  a  Letter  of  Mr.  Froth's 
Name,  etc.  —  Your  humble  Servant, 

Clarinda. 


To  resume  one  of  the  Morals  of  my  first  Paper,  and  to 
confirm  Clarinda  in  her  good  Inclinations,  I  would  have 
her  consider  what  a  pretty  Figure  she  would  make  among 
Posterity,  were  the  History  of  her  whole  Life  published 
like  these  five  Days  of  it.  I  shall  conclude  my  Paper  with 
an  Epitaph  written  by  an  uncertain  Author  on  Sir  Philip 
Sidney's  Sister,  a  Lady  who  seems  to  have  been  of  a  Tem- 
per very  much  different  from  that  of  Clarinda.  The  last 
Thought  of  it  is  so  very  noble,  that  I  dare  say  my  Reader 
will  pardon  me  the  Quotation. 
234 


Addison  and  Steele's  Gallery 
On  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Pembroke 

Underneath  this  Marble  Hearse 
Lies  the  Subject  of  all  Verse, 
Sidney's  Sister,  Pembroke's  Mother  : 
Death,  ere  thou  hast  kitt'd  another. 
Fair,  and  learn' d,  and  good  as  she, 

Time  shall  throw  a  Dart  at  thee. 


Joseph  Addison 


Mrs.  Truelove 


THERE  is  one  Consideration  which  I  would  earnestly 
recommend  to  all  my  Female  Readers,  and  which,  I 
hope,  will  have  some  weight  with  them.  In  short,  it  is 
this,  that  there  is  nothing  so  bad  for  the  Face  as  Party- 
Zeal.  It  gives  an  ill-natured  Cast  to  the  Eye,  and  a 
disagreeable  Sourness  to  the  Look  ;  besides,  that  it 
makes  the  Lines  too  strong,  and  flushes  them  worse 
than  Brandy.  I  have  seen  a  Woman's  Face  break  out 
in  Heats,  as  she  has  been  talking  against  a  great  Lord, 
whom  she  had  never  seen  in  her  Life  ;  and  indeed  never 
knew  a  Party-Woman  that  kept  her  Beauty  for  a  Twelve- 
month. I  would  therefore  advise  all  my  Female  Readers, 
as  they  value  their  Complexions,  to  let  alone  all  Disputes 
of  this  Nature  :  though,  at  the  same  time,  I  would  give 
free  Liberty  to  all  superannuated  motherly  Partizans 
to  be  as  violent  as  they  please,  since  there  will  be  no 
Danger  either  of  their  spoiling  their  Faces,  or  of  their 
gaining  Converts. 

For  my  own  part,  I  think  a  Man  makes  an  odious  and 

despicable    Figure,   that    is    violent   in    a   Party  :    but   a 

Woman   is    too    sincere    to    mitigate    the    Fury   of    her 

Principles    with     Temper    and    Discretion,    and    to    act 

235 


The   Ladies'    Pageant 


with  that  Caution  and  Reservedness  which  are  requisite 
in  our  Sex.  When  this  unnatural  Zeal  gets  into  them, 
it  throws  them  into  ten  thousand  Heats  and  Extrava- 
gancies; their  generous  [Souls]  set  no  Bounds  to  their 
Love  or  to  their  Hatred ;  and  whether  a  Whig  or  Tory, 
a  Lap-Dog  or  a  Gallant,  an  Opera  or  a  Puppet-Show, 
be  the  Object  of  it,  the  Passion,  while  it  reigns,  engrosses 
the  whole  Woman. 

I  remember  when  Dr.  Titus  Oates  was  in  all  his  Glory, 
I  accompanied  my  Friend  WILL.  [HONEYCOMB]  in  a 
Visit  to  a  Lady  of  his  Acquaintance :  We  were  no  sooner 
sat  down,  but  upon  casting  my  Eyes  about  the  Room,  I 
found  in  almost  every  Corner  of  it  a  Print  that  repre- 
sented the  Doctor  in  all  Magnitudes  and  Dimensions. 
A  little  after,  as  the  Lady  was  discoursing  my  Friend, 
and  held  her  Snuff-box  in  her  Hand,  who  should  I  see 
in  the  Lid  of  it  but  the  Doctor.  It  was  not  long  after 
this,  when  she  had  Occasion  for  her  Handkerchief,  which 
upon  the  first  opening  discovered  among  the  Plaits  of  it 
the  Figure  of  the  Doctor.  Upon  this  my  friend  WILL., 
who  loves  Raillery,  told  her,  That  if  he  was  in  Mr. 
Truelove's  Place  (for  that  was  the  Name  for  her 
Husband)  she  should  be  made  as  uneasy  by  a  Hand- 
kerchief as  ever  Othello  was.  /  am  afraid,  said  she, 
Mr.  [HONEYCOMB,]  you  are  a  Tory,  tell  me  truly,  are 
you  a  Friend  to  the  Doctor  or  not  ?  WILL.,  instead  of 
making  her  a  Reply,  smiled  in  her  Face  (for  indeed  she 
was  very  pretty)  and  told  her  that  one  of  her  Patches 
was  dropping  off.  She  immediately  adjusted  it,  and 
looking  a  little  seriously,  Well,  says  she,  Fll  be  hang'd 
if  you  and  your  silent  Friend  there  are  not  against  the 
Doctor  in  your  Hearts,  I  suspected  as  much  by  his  saying 
nothing.  Upon  this  she  took  her  Fan  into  her  Hand, 
and  upon  the  opening  of  it  again  displayed  to  us 
2.36 


Addison  and  Steele's  Gallery 

the  Figure  of  the  Doctor,  who  was  placed  with  great 
Gravity  among  the  Sticks  of  it.  In  a  word,  I  found  that 
the  Doctor  had  taken  Possession  of  her  Thoughts,  her 
Discourse,  and  most  of  her  Furniture;  but  finding  my 
self  pressed  too  close  by  her  Question,  I  winked  upon  my 
Friend  to  take  his  leave,  which  he  did  accordingly. 

Joseph  Addison 

Liddy         *o      -^      *o       ^y       ^>       o       ^v 

THE  cheerful  good-humoured  Creatures,  into  whose 
Heads  it  never  entred  that  they  could  make  any 
Man  unhappy,  are  the  Persons  formed  for  making  Men 
happy.  There's  Miss  Liddy  can  dance  a  Jigg,  raise 
Paste,  write  a  good  Hand,  keep  an  Account,  give  a 
reasonable  Answer,  and  do  as  she  is  bid ;  while  her  elder 
Sister  Madam  Martha  is  out  of  Humour,  has  the  Splee^ 
learns  by  Reports  of  People  of  higher  Quality  new  Ways 
of  being  uneasie  and  displeased.  And  this  happens  for 
no  Reason  in  the  World,  but  that  poor  Liddy  knows  she 
has  no  such  thing  as  a  certain  Negligence  that  is  so 
becoming,  that  there  is  not  I  know  not  what  in  her  Air : 
And  that  if  she  talks  like  a  Fool,  there  is  no  one  will  say? 
Well!  I  know  not  what  it  is,  but  every  Thing  pleases 
when  she  speaks  it. 

Sir  R.  Steele 

The  Perverse  Widow        ^y      *o      •<>>.       "Q>      -<o 

I 

TT    is,  quoth  the  good    Old    Man,  looking  round   him 

-*•     with  a  Smile,  very  hard,  that  any  Part  of  my  Land 

should  be  settled  upon  one  who  has  used  me  so  ill  as 

237 


The   Ladies'   Pageant 


the  perverse  Widow  did ;  and  yet  I  am  sure  I  could 
not  see  a  Sprig  of  any  Bough  of  this  whole  Walk  of 
Trees,  but  I  should  reflect  upon  her  and  her  Severity. 
She  has  certainly  the  finest  Hand  of  any  Woman  in  the 
World.  You  are  to  know  this  was  the  Place  wherein 
I  used  to  muse  upon  her;  and  by  that  Custom  I  can 
never  come  into  it,  but  the  same  tender  Sentiments 
revive  in  my  Mind,  as  if  I  had  actually  walked  with 
that  Beautiful  Creature  under  these  Shades.  I  have 
been  Fool  enough  to  carve  her  Name  on  the  Bark  of 
several  of  these  Trees ;  so  unhappy  is  the  Condition 
of  Men  in  Love,  to  attempt  the  removing  of  their 
Passion  by  the  Methods  which  serve  only  to  imprint  it 
deeper.  She  has  certainly  the  finest  Hand  of  any 
Woman  in  the  World.  .  .  . 

You  must  understand,  Sir,  this  perverse  Woman  is 
one  of  those  unaccountable  Creatures,  that  secretly 
rejoice  in  the  Admiration  of  Men,  but  indulge  them- 
selves in  no  further  Consequences.  Hence  it  is  that 
she  has  ever  had  a  Train  of  Admirers,  and  she  removes 
from  her  Slaves  in  Town  to  those  in  the  Country, 
according  to  the  Seasons  of  the  Year.  She  is  a  reading 
Lady,  and  far  gone  in  the  Pleasures  of  Friendship ; 
She  is  always  accompanied  by  a  Confident,  who  is 
Witness  to  her  daily  Protestations  against  our  Sex,  and 
consequently  a  Bar  to  her  first  Steps  towards  Love,  upon 
the  Strength  of  her  own  Maxims  and  Declarations. 

However,  I  must  needs  say  this  accomplished 
Mistress  of  mine  has  distinguished  me  above  the  rest, 
and  has  been  known  to  declare  Sir  ROGER  DE  COVERLEY 
was  the  Tamest  and  most  Human  of  all  the  Brutes  in 
the  Country.  I  was  told  she  said  so,  by  one  who  thought 
he  rallied  me;  but  upon  the  Strength  of  this  slender 
Encouragement,  of  being  thought  least  detestable,  I 
238 


Addison  and  Steele's  Gallery 

made  new  Liveries,  new  paired  my  Coach-Horses,  sent 
them  all  to  Town  to  be  bitted,  and  taught  to  throw 
their  Legs  well,  and  move  all  together,  before  I  pre- 
tended to  cross  the  Country  and  wait  upon  her.  As 
soon  as  I  thought  my  Retinue  suitable  to  the  Character 
of  my  Fortune  and  Youth,  I  set  out  from  hence  to 
make  my  Addresses.  The  particular  Skill  of  this  Lady 
has  ever  been  to  inflame  your  Wishes,  and  yet  command 
Respect.  To  make  her  Mistress  of  this  Art,  she  has 
a  greater  Share  of  Knowledge,  Wit,  and  good  Sense, 
than  is  usual  even  among  Men  of  Merit.  Then  she  is 
beautiful  beyond  the  Race  of  Women.  If  you  won't 
let  her  go  on  with  a  certain  Artifice  with  her  Eyes,  and 
the  Skill  of  Beauty,  she  will  arm  her  self  with  her  real 
Charms,  and  strike  you  with  Admiration  instead  of 
Desire.  It  is  certain  that  if  you  were  to  behold  the 
whole  Woman,  there  is  that  Dignity  in  her  Aspect, 
that  Composure  in  her  Motion,  that  Complacency  in 
her  Manner,  that  if  her  Form  makes  you  hope,  her 
Merit  makes  you  fear.  But  then  again,  she  is  such  a 
desperate  Scholar,  that  no  Country-Gentleman  can 
approach  her  without  being  a  Jest.  As  I  was  going  to 
tell  you,  when  I  came  to  her  House  I  was  admitted  to 
her  Presence  with  great  Civility ;  at  the  same  time  she 
placed  her  self  to  be  first  seen  by  me  in  such  an  Attitude, 
as  I  think  you  call  the  Posture  of  a  Picture,  that  she 
discovered  new  Charms,  and  I  at  last  came  towards 
her  with  such  an  Awe  as  made  me  Speechless.  This 
she  no  sooner  observed  but  she  made  her  Advantage 
of  it,  and  began  a  Discourse  to  me  concerning  Love 
and  Honour,  as  they  both  are  followed  by  Pretenders, 
and  the  real  Votaries  to  them.  When  she  [had]  dis- 
cussed these  Points  in  a  Discourse,  which  I  verily 
believe  was  as  learned  as  the  best  Philosopher  in  Europe 
239 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

could  possibly  make,  she  asked  me  whether  she  was  so 
happy  as  to  fall  in  with  my  Sentiments  on  these  import- 
ant Particulars.  Her  Confident  sat  by  her,  and  upon 
my  being  in  the  last  Confusion  and  Silence,  this  malicious 
Aid  of  hers,  turning  to  her,  says,  I  am  very  glad  to 
observe  Sir  ROGER  pauses  upon  this  Subject,  and  seems 
resolved  to  deliver  all  his  Sentiments  upon  the  Matter 
when  he  pleases  to  speak.  They  both  kept  their 
Countenances,  and  after  I  had  sat  half  an  Hour 
meditating  how  to  behave  before  such  profound  Casuists, 
I  rose  up  and  took  my  Leave.  Chance  has  since  that 
time  thrown  me  very  often  in  her  Way,  and  she  as  often 
has  directed  a  Discourse  to  me  which  I  do  not  under- 
stand. This  Barbarity  has  kept  me  ever  at  a  Distance 
from  the  most  beautiful  Object  my  Eyes  ever  beheld. 
It  is  thus  also  she  deals  with  all  Mankind,  and  you  must 
make  Love  to  her,  as  you  would  conquer  the  Sphinx,  by 
posing  her.  But  were  she  like  other  Women,  and  that 
there  were  any  talking  to  her,  how  constant  must  the 
Pleasure  of  that  Man  be,  who  could  converse  with  a 
Creature.  But,  after  all,  you  may  be  sure  her  Heart 
is  fixed  on  some  one  or  other;  and  yet  I  have  been 
credibly  informed  ;  but  who  can  believe  half  that  is  said  ! 
After  she  had  done  speaking  to  me,  she  put  her  Hand 
to  her  Bosom,  and  adjusted  her  Tucker.  Then  she  cast 
her  Eyes  a  little  down,  upon  my  beholding  her  too 
earnestly.  They  say  she  sings  excellently :  her  Voice 
in  her  ordinary  Speech  has  something  in  it  inexpressibly 
sweet.  You  must  know  I  dined  with  her  at  a  publick 
Table  the  Day  after  I  first  saw  her,  and  she  helped  me 
to  some  Tansy  in  the  Eye  of  all  the  Gentlemen  in  the 
Country:  She  has  certainly  the  finest  Hand  of  any 
Woman  in  the  World.  I  can  assure  you.  Sir,  were  you 
to  behold  her,  you  would  be  in  the  same  Condition ;  for 
240 


Addison  and  Steele's  Gallery 

as  her  Speech  is  Musick,  her  Form  is  Angelick.  But 
I  find  I  grow  irregular  while  I  am  talking  of  her:  but 
indeed  it  would  be  stupidity  to  be  unconcerned  at 
such  Perfection.  Oh  the  excellent  Creature,  she  is  as 
inimitable  to  all  Women,  as  she  is  inaccessible  to  all 
Men. 

Sir  R.  Steele 


II 


I  REMEMBER  my  Friend  Sir  ROGER,  who  I  dare  say 
never  read  this  Passage  in  Plato,  told  me  some  time 
since,  that  upon  his  courting  the  Perverse  Widow  (of 
whom  I  have  given  an  Account  in  former  Papers)  he 
had  disposed  of  an  hundred  Acres  in  a  Diamond-Ring, 
which  he  would  have  presented  her  with,  had  she  thought 
fit  to  accept  it;  and  that  upon  her  Wedding-Day  she 
should  have  carried  on  her  Head  fifty  of  the  tallest  Oaks 
upon  his  Estate.  He  further  informed  me  that  he  would 
have  given  her  a  Cole-pit  to  keep  her  in  clean  Linnen, 
that  he  would  have  allowed  her  the  Profits  of  a  Windmill 
for  her  Fans,  and  have  presented  her  once  in  three  Years 
with  the  Sheering  of  his  Sheep  [for  her]  Under- 
Petticoats.  To  which  the  Knight  always  adds,  that 
though  he  did  not  care  for  fine  Cloaths  himself,  there 
should  not  have  been  a  Woman  in  the  Country  better 
dressed  than  my  Lady  Coverley. 

Joseph  Addison 


24I 


XXI 
DIANAS 


Juliana  Earners 


JULIANA  BARNES  was  born  ex  antiqua  Gf 
illustri  domo.  Understand  it  not  in  the  sense 
wherein  the  same  was  said  of  a  certain  Pope,  born  in 
a  ruinous  cottage,  where  the  Sun  did  shine  through  the 
rotten  walls  and  roof  thereof.  But  indeed  she  was 
descended  of  a  respective  Family,  though  I,  not  able  to 
find  the  place,  am  fain  to  use  my  marginal  mark  of 
greatest  uncertainty. 

She  was  the  Diana  of  her  Age  for  Hunting  and 
Hawking;  skilful  also  in  Fishing,  and  wrote  Three 
Books  of  these  Exercises,  commending  the  practice 
thereof  to  the  Gentry  of  England. 

The  City  of  Leyden  is  cited  in  the  very  bottom  of  the 
Low-Countries ;  so  that  the  water  settled  there  would 
be  soon  subject  to  putrefaction,  were  it  not  by  engins 
forced  up,  that  it  might  fall,  and  so  by  constant  motion 
kept  from  corrtiption.  Idleness  will  betray  noble  men's 
minds  to  the  same  mischief,  if  some  ingenious  industry 
be  not  used  for  their  employment. 

Our  Juliana  also  wrot  a  book  of  Heraldry.  Say  not 
the  Needle  is  the  most  proper  Pen  for  the  Woman ;  and 
242 


Dianas 

that  she  ought  to  meddle  with  making  no  Coats,  save 
such  as  Dorcas  made  for  the  Widows,  seeing  their  Sex 
may  be  not  only  pardoned,  but  praised  for  such  lawful 
diversions.  No  Gentleman  will  severely  censure  the  faults 
in  her  Heraldry. 

Thomas  Fuller 


Mrs.  Careless    *o       <^y       ^>       *o       ^>       -<o 

THESE  hills,  too,  require  good  horsemanship.  There 
are  none  who  ride  them  in  better  style  than  the 
sons  of  the  South  Down  farmers,  though  I  knew  a  lady 
of  the  name  of  Careless,  that  fifteen  years  ago  was  wont 
to  accompany  to  the  field  Mr.  T.  H.  Harben,  of  Corsica 
Hall,  Seaford,  who  was  equal  to  the  best  of  them.  Good 
God,  what  a  treat  it  was  to  see  her !  What,  Mr.  Editor, 
is  so  enchantingly,  so  heavenly  divine,  as  to  behold  an 
elegant  well-mounted  woman,  clever  at  the  manege,  in 
the  chase  !  She  is,  Sir,  the  life  —  the  soul — the  vigour 
of  men,  dogs,  horses,  and  everything  that  composes  the 
field. 

An  Old  South  Downer 
{In  the  "  Sporting  Magazine"  1823) 


Mrs.  Dalyell      ^*       *^y       ^>       -Qy       <^y       *cv 

ON  my   arrival  at    Burnside,  I  was  kindly  welcomed 
by  Mrs.   Dalyell,  whose   acquaintance    I    was    de- 
lighted   to    make,  not  only  as  the  sister  of  Sir   Ralph 
Anstruther,  but  also  from  having  been  told  that  she  was 
as  fond  of  fox-hunting  as  her  husband  is,  and  one  of  the 
best  and  boldest  horsewomen  in  Scotland.     Now  as  there 
is  nothing  like  producing  proof,    and    making   matters 
243 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

clear  as  we  proceed,  I  will  at  once  substantiate  what  I 
have  asserted  as  to  the  enthusiasm  of  the  husband,  and 
the  fine  horsemanship  of  the  wife.  "  You  have  a  good 
garden  here,  no  doubt,"  said  I  one  day  at  dinner  at 
Burnside,  to  the  former,  when  discussing  the  merits  of 
some  very  fine  seakale.  "  /  believe  there  is"  was  the 
reply ;  "  but  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  have  never  been  in  it. 
It  is  too  far  from  the  kennel.'1'' 

Mark,  reader,  this  "  too  far "  is  somewhere  about  one 
hundred  yards  !  But  neither  Millwood  nor  Margery, 
Racer  nor  Roundelay,  Gilder  nor  Gadfly,  were  to  be  seen 
there,  and  anything  appertaining  to  the  cabbage  genus 
would  have  proved  a  poor  substitute  for  them.  The 
accomplishments  of  the  lady,  —  "a  second  Minerva  in 
her  studies,  another  Diana  in  the  field" — are  told  in  a 
few  words.  During  a  visit  I  paid  to  this  sporting  couple 
last  winter,  at  their  new  residence  in  Hertfordshire,  I 
found  she  had  so  distinguished  herself  in  a  run,  which 
very  few  saw  the  end  of,  that  the  fame  of  her  horse 
reached  the  ears  of  the  present  Duke  of  Beaufort ;  and 
his  Grace  having  ascertained  his  price,  sent  a  servant 
with  a  cheque  for  250  gs.  for  him  on  the  day  pre- 
viously to  my  arrival.  He  is  called  Tom  Thumb ;  is 
upwards  of  sixteen  hands  high  ;  goes  in  a  plain  snaffle 
bridle,  and  as  light  in  hand  as  a  pony.  I  rode  him  twice 
during  my  visit  to  Scotland,  and  therefore  can  vouch  for 
what  I  have  said. 

By  the  bye,  I  must  add  one  word  more  to  the  credit 
of  this  lady  as  a  horsewoman  ;  but  if  I  were  to  relate  all 
her  feats,  and  the  number  of  miles  she  has  ridden  to  and 
from  hounds,  and  with  hounds,  in  one  day,  I  should 
require  second  wind.  Mr.  Dalyell  told  me  that  towards 
the  end  of  the  capital  run  I  have  alluded  to,  when  (as 
2  44 


Dianas 

the  Duke  of  Orleans  said  to  me)  "the  field  had  become 
select,1'  he  rode  over  a  style  at  which  the  ground  at  the 
rising  side  was  very  rotten  and  bad.  On  looking  back 
to  see  how  his  lady  managed  it,  he  saw  Tom  Thumb  — 
who  slipped,  for  timber-jumping  is  not  his  forte  —  on  his 
head  on  the  landing  side,  having  broken  every  bar. 
And  where  was  his  lady  ?  a  la  Snob  in  the  mud  ?  Not 
a  bit  of  it ;  she  was  in  her  saddle,  and  rose,  a  la  Musters, 
with  her  Varia. 

Nimrod 

BETWEEN  the  yes  and   no   of  a  woman  I  would  not 
undertake  to  thrust  the  point  of  a  pin. 

Sancho  Panza 

A  MAN  cannot  possess  anything   that  is  better  than  a 
good  woman,  nor  anything  that  is  worse  than  a  bad  one. 

Simonides 

ONE  should  always  make  it  a  rule  to  give  up  to  them, 
and  then  they  are  sure  to  give  up  to  us. 

Lord  Eskdale  in  "  Coningsby" 

WOMAN  alone  can  organise  a  drawing-room  :  man  suc- 
ceeds sometimes  in  a  library. 

B.  Disraeli 

"  HOWIVER,  I'm  not  denyin'    the  women  are  foolish : 
God  Almighty  made  'em  to  match  the  men." 

Mrs.  Poyser 


245 


XXII 
THE     PARAGONS 

The  Lady  Margaret  Ley  "C^       -<o       *^y       ^y 

DAUGHTER  to  that  good  earl,  once  President 
Of  England's  council  and  her  treasury, 
Who  lived  in  both,  unstainM  with  gold  or  fee, 
And  left  them  both,  more  in  himself  content, 

Till  the  sad  breaking  of  that  parliament 

Broke  him,  as  that  dishonest  victor}' 

At  Chaeronea,  fatal  to  liberty, 

Kill'd  with  report  that  old  man  eloquent ;  — 

Though  later  born  than  to  have  known  the  days 
Wherein  your  father  flourished,  yet  by  you, 
Madam,  methinks  I  see  him  living  yet ; 

So  well  your  words  his  noble  virtues  praise, 
That  all  both  judge  you  to  relate  them  true, 
And  to  possess  them,  honour'd  Margaret. 

/.  Milton 

Mrs.  Anne  Killigrew    ^y        <^>        ^>        <^y       *o 

'"pHOU  youngest  Virgin-daughter  of  the  skies, 
J-      Made  in  the  last  promotion  of  the  blest ; 
Whose  palms,  new  pluck'd  from  Paradise, 
In  spreading  branches  more  sublimely  rise, 
246 


The  Paragons 

Rich  with  immortal  green  above  the  rest ; 

Whether,  adopted  to  some  neighbouring  star, 

Thou  roll'st  above  us  in  thy  wandering  race, 

Or  in  procession  fix'd  and  regular 

Mov'st  with  the  heavens'  majestic  pace, 

Or,  call'd  to  more  superior  bliss, 

Thou  tread'st  with  Seraphims  the  vast  abyss  : 

Whatever  happy -region  be  thy  place, 

Cease  thy  celestial  song  a  little  space ; 

Thou  wilt  have  time  enough  for  hymns  divine, 

Since  Heaven's  eternal  year  is  thine. 

Hear,  then,  a  mortal  Muse  thy  praise  rehearse, 

In  no  ignoble  verse, 

But  such  as  thy  own  voice  did  practise  here, 

When  thy  first  fruits  of  poesy  were  given, 

To  make  thyself  a  welcome  inmate  there ; 

While  yet  a  young  probationer, 

And  candidate  of  Heaven. 

If  by  traduction  came  thy  mind, 
Our  wonder  is  the  less  to  find 
A  soul  so  charming  from  a  stock  so  good  ; 
Thy  father  was  transfused  into  thy  blood ! 
So  wert  thou  born  into  the  tuneful  strain, 
An  early,  rich  and  inexhausted  vein, 
But  if  thy  pre-existing  soul 
Was  formed  at  first  with  myriads  more, 
It  did  through  all  the  mighty  poets  roll 
Who  Greek  or  Latin  laurels  wore, 
And  was  that  Sappho  last,  which  once  it  was  before. 
If  so,  then  cease  thy  flight,  O  heaven-born  mind ! 
Thou  hast  no  dross  to  purge  from  thy  rich  ore : 
Nor  can  thy  Soul  a  fairer  mansion  find 
Than  was  the  beauteous  frame  she  left  behind : 
Return,  to  fill  or  mend  the  quire  of  thy  celestial  kind. 
247 


The   Ladies'    Pageant 


May  we  presume  to  say  that,  at  thy  birth, 

New  joy  was  sprung  in  Heaven  as  well  as  here  on  Earth  ? 

For  sure  the  milder  planets  did  combine 

On  thy  auspicious  horoscope  to  shine, 

And  e'en  the  most  malicious  were  in  trine. 

Thy  brother-angels  at  thy  birth 

Strung  each  his  lyre,  and  tuned  it  high, 

That  all  the  people  of  the  sky 

Might  know  a  poetess  was  born  on  Earth ; 

And  then,  if  ever,  mortal  ears 

Had  heard  the  music  of  the  spheres. 

And  if  no  clustering  swarm  of  bees 

On  thy  sweet  mouth  distill'd  their  golden  dew, 

'Twas  that  such  vulgar  miracles 

Heaven  had  not  leisure  to  renew ; 

For  all  the  blest  fraternity  of  love 

Solemnized  there  thy  birth,  and  kept  thy  holiday  above. 

Art  she  had  none,  yet  wanted  none, 
For  Nature  did  that  want  supply : 
So  rich  in  treasures  of  her  own, 
She  might  our  boasted  stores  defy : 
Such  noble  vigour  did  her  verse  adorn 
That  it  seem'd  borrow'd,  where  'twas  only  born. 
Her  morals  too  were  in  her  bosom  bred, 
By  great  examples,  daily  fed, 

What  in  the  best  of  books,  her  father's  life,  she  read. 
And  to  be  read  herself  she  need  not  fear ; 
Each  test  and  every  light  her  Muse  will  bear, 
Though  Epictetus  with  his  lamp  were  there. 
E'en  love  (for  love  sometimes  her  Muse  exprest), 
Was  but  a  lambent  flame  which  play'd  about  her  breast ; 
Light  as  the  vapours  of  a  morning  dream, 
So  cold  herself,  whilst  she  such  warmth  exprest, 
'Twas  Cupid  bathing  in  Diana's  stream. 
248 


The  Paragons 

Born  to  the  spacious  Empire  of  the  Nine, 

One  would  have  thought  she  should  have  been  content 

To  manage  well  that  mighty  Government, 

But  what  can  young  ambitious  souls  confine? 

To  the  next  realm  she  stretchM  her  sway, 

For  Painture  near  adjoining  lay, 

A  plenteous  province  and  alluring  prey. 

A  chamber  of  Dependences  was  framed, 

(As  conquerors  will  never  want  pretence, 

When  armed,  to  justify  the  offence), 

And  the  whole  fief,  in  right  of  Poetry,  she  claim'd. 

The  country  open  lay  without  defence, 

For  poets  frequent  inroads  there  had  made, 

And  perfectly  could  represent 

The  shape,  the  face,  with  every  lineament, 

And   all    the   large   domains    which   the   Dumb    Sister 

sway'd ; 

All  bowed  beneath  her  government, 
Received  in  triumph  wheresoe'er  she  went. 
Her  pencil  drew  whate'er  her  soul  design'd, 
And  oft  the  happy  draught  surpass'd  the  image  in  her 

mind. 

Now  all  those  charms,  that  blooming  grace, 
The  well-proportion'd  shape  and  beauteous  face, 
Shall  never  more  be  seen  by  mortal  eyes ; 
In  earth  the  much-lamented  Virgin  lies. 

Meantime,  her  warlike  brother  on  the  seas 
His  waving  streamers  to  the  winds  displays, 
And  vows  for  his  return,  with  vain  devotion,  pays. 
Ah,  generous  youth  !  that  wish  forbear, 
The  winds  too  soon  will  waft  thee  here  ! 
Slack  all  thy  sails,  and  fear  to  come ; 
Alas !  thou  know'st  not,  thou  art  wreck'd  at  home. 
249 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

No  more  shalt  thou  behold  thy  sister's  face, 
Thou  hast  already  had  her  last  embrace. 
But  look  aloft,  and  if  thou  ken'st  from  far, 
Among  the  Pleiads,  a  new-kindled  star, 
If  any  sparkles  than  the  rest  more  bright, 
Tis  she  that  shines  in  that  propitious  light. 

John  Dryden 

Rachel,  Lady  Russell   <^       ^       ^        ^>        ^> 

I 

A  T  ten  o'clock  my  lady  left  him.  He  kissed  her  four 
**•  or  five  times ;  and  she  kept  her  sorrow  so  within 
herself  that  she  gave  him  no  disturbance  by  their  parting. 
After  she  was  gone,  he  said,  "Now  the  bitterness  of 
death  is  past,"  and  ran  out  a  long  discourse  concerning 
her — how  great  a  blessing  she  had  been  to  him;  and 
said  what  a  misery  it  would  have  been  to  him,  if  she  had 
not  had  that  magnanimity  of  spirit,  joined  to  her  tender- 
ness, as  never  to  have  desired  him  to  do  a  base  thing  for 
the  saving  of  his  life. 

Bishop  Burnet 

II 

A  /TY  friendships  have  made  all  the  joys  and  troubles 
1VJ.  of  my  iife  j  an[i  yet  who  would  live  and  not 
love?  Those  who  have  tried  the  insipidness  of  it  would, 
I  believe,  never  choose  it.  Mr.  Waller  says  'tis  (with 
singing)  all  we  know  they  do  above  !  for  if  there  is  so 
charming  a  delight  in  the  love  and  suitableness  in 
humours  to  creatures,  what  must  it  be  to  the  clarified 
spirits  to  love  in  the  presence  of  God. 

Rachel,  Lady  Russell 
250 


The  Paragons 

Mrs.  Godolphin  <^y        *c^       ^>       o       ^y 

"\T  7ERE  it  never  soe  dark,  wett,  or  uncomfortable 
•  •  weather,  dureing  the  severity  of  winter,  she 
would  rarely  omit  being  att  the  chappell  att  7  a'clock 
prayers,  and  if  a  Communion  day,  how  late  soever  her 
attendance  were  on  the  Queen,  and  her  owne  exterordinary 
preparation  kept  her  up,  she  would  be  dressed  and  att 
her  private  Devotions  some  hours  before  the  publick 
office  began. 

This  brings  to  remembrance  what  I  could  not  then 
but  smile  att,  that  finding  one  day  a  long  pack  thread 
passing  through  the  keyhole  of  her  chamber  doore,  and 
reaching  to  her  bed's  head  (opposite  to  that  of  your 
sisters,  if  I  be  not  mistaken,)  and  inquireing  what  it 
singnifyed,  I  att  last  understood,  itt  had  been  to  awaken 
her  early  in  the  morning,  the  Centinell,  whose  station 
was  of  course  near  the  entrance,  being  desired  to  pull  it 
very  hard  att  such  an  hour,  whilst  the  other  extream  was 
tyed  fast  about  her  wrist,  fearing  her  maid  might  over 
sleep  her  selfe,  or  call  her  later  than  she  had  appointed. 

But  besides  the  monthly  Communions,  she  rarely 
missed  a  Sunday  throughout  the  whole  year,  wherein 
she  did  not  receive  the  holy  Sacrament  if  she  were  in 
towne  and  tollerable  health ;  and  I  well  know  she  had 
those  who  gave  her  constant  advertisement  where  it  was 
celebrated  upon  some  more  solemn  festivals,  besides  not 
seldome  on  the  weeke  days  assisting  at  one  poore 
Creature's  or  other;  and  when  sometymes,  being  in  the 
Country,  or  on  a  Journey,  she  had  not  these  oppertunityes 
she  made  use  of  a  devout  meditation  upon  the  sacred 
Mistery,  by  way  of  mentall  Communion,  soe  as  she  was 
in  a  continuall  state  of  preparation:  and  O,  with  what 
unspeakable  care  and  niceness  did  she  use  to  dress  and 
251 


The   Ladies'   Pageant 

trim  her  soul  against  this  Heavenly  Banquett ;  with 
what  flagrant  devotion  at  the  altar.  I  doe  assure  your 
Ladyshipp,  I  have  seen  her  receive  the  holy  symbolls, 
with  such  an  humble  and  melting  joy  in  her  countenance, 
as  seenYd  to  be  something  of  transport,  not  to  say 
angelic  —  something  I  cannot  describe :  and  she  has 
herselfe  confessed  to  me  to  have  felt  in  her  soule  such 
influxes  of  heavenly  joy  as  has  almost  carryed  her  into 
another  world :  I  doe  not  call  them  Rapts  and  Illapses, 
because  she  would  not  have  endured  to  be  esteemed 
above  other  humble  Christians ;  butt  that  she  was  some- 
tymes  visitted  with  exterordinary  favours  I  have  many 
reasons  to  believe :  see  what  upon  another  occasion  she 
writes  to  me.  .  .  . 

Noe  sooner  was  she  descended  from  her  bed,  but  she 
fell  on  her  knees  in  profound  adoration ;  and  all  the 
tyme  of  her  dressing,  —  which  for  the  most  part  she  finished 
of  herselfe  without  other  help,  —  her  mayd  was  reading 
some  part  of  Scripture  to  her,  and  when  her  assistance 
was  necessary,  she  would  take  the  booke  herselfe,  and 
read  to  her  maid;  thus  continually  imploy'd  she  medi- 
tations, till  she  was  fully  dress'd ;  which  she  would  be  in 
a  very  little  tyme,  even  to  all  the  agreeable  circumstances 
becomeing  her,  because  indeed  she  became  everything, 
and  this  early  riseing  and  little  indulgence  to  her  ease, 
made  her  look  like  a  flower,  lovely,  and  fresh,  and  full  of 
health ;  being  in  this  posture,  she  withdrew  to  private 
demotion  in  her  closett,  till  her  servant  advertised  her 
it  was  tyme  to  goe  to  the  Chappell,  where  she  was  ever 
with  the  first  of  the  devout  sex,  were  it  never  soe  wett,  cold, 
and  darke,  even  before  day  breake,  in  midst  of  winter.  .  .  . 

She  was  sometymes  engaged  to  pass  the  after  dynner 
att  Cards,  especially  when  she  came  to  Berkley  House, 
(where  was  great  resort,)  more  to  comply  with  others, 
252 


The   Paragons 

than  that  she  tooke  the  least  delight  in  it ;  and  tho1  being 
commonly  extrcamly  fortunate,  and  very  skillfull,  she 
commonly  rose  a  winner,  and  allwayes  reserved  her 
winnings  for  the  poore,  itt  was  yett  amongst  the  greatest 
afflictions  of  her  life,  when,  to  comply  with  some  persons 
of  Qualitye,  she  satt  anything  long  att  itt.  ... 

Never  was  there  a  more  unspotted  Virgin,  a  more 
loyall  wife,  a  more  sincere  friend,  a  more  consummate 
Christian;  add  to  this,  a  florid  youth,  an  exquisite 
and  naturall  beauty,  and  gracefullness  the  most  be- 
comeing.  Nor  was  she  to  be  disguised ;  there  was 
nothing  more  quick  and  piercing  than  her  apprehension, 
nothing  more  faithfull  than  her  memory,  more  solid  and 
mature  than  her  Judgement,  insomuch  as  I  have  heard 
her  husband  affirme  to  me  (whose  discernment  all  that 
have  the  honour  to  know  him  will  allow  to  be  exter- 
ordinary)  that  even  in  the  greatest  difficultyes  and 
occasions,  he  has  both  asked  and  preferred  her  advice 
with  continuall  Success,  and  with  these  solid  parts  she 
had  all  the  advantages  of  a  most  sparkling  witt,  a  natural 
eloquence,  a  gentle  and  agreeable  tone  of  voice,  and  a 
charmeing  accent  when  she  spake,  whilst  the  Charmes  of 
her  Countenance  were  made  up  of  the  greatest  Innocence, 
modesty,  and  goodness  Imaginable,  agreeable  to  the 
Composure  of  her  thoughts,  and  the  union  of  a  thousand 
perfections ;  add  to  all  this,  she  was  Just,  Invincible, 
Secrett,  ingeniously  sinceere,  faithfull  in  her  promises,  and 
to  a  Miracle  temperate,  and  mistress  of  her  passions 
and  resolutions,  and  soe  well  had  she  employed  her 
spann  of  tyme,  that  as  oft  as  I  consider  how  much  she 
knew,  and  writt,  and  did,  I  am  plainly  astonished,  and 
blush  even  for  myselfe. 

O  how  delightfull  entertaining  was  this  Lady,  how 
grave  her  discourse,  how  unlike  the  Conversation  of  her 
253 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

sex  When  she  was  the  most  facetious,  it  would  allways 
end  in  a  chearfull  composedness  the  most  becomeing  in 
the  world,  for  she  was  the  tenderest  Creature  living  of 
taking  advantage  of  another's  imperfections ;  nothing 
could  be  more  humble  and  full  of  Compassion,  nothing 
more  disposed  to  all  offices  of  kindness.  In  a  word, 
what  perfections  were  scattered  amongst  others  of  her 
sex,  seem'd  here  to  be  united,  and  she  went  every  day 
improveing,  shineing  brighter  and  ascending  still  in  vertue. 

John  Evelyn 

Dorothy  Selby        <ix      *o      ^>      ^^>      ^>      'Qy 

Dedicated  to  the  pious  memory  of 
DAME  DOROTHY  SELBY 

OHE  was  a  Dorcas 

Whose  curious  needle  turn'd  the  abused  stage 
Of  this  lewd  world  into  a  golden  age : 
Whose  pen  of  steele,  and  silken  inke,  enrolPd 
The  acts  of  Jona  in  records  of  gold  ; 
Whose  art  disclos'd  that  plott,  which  had  it  taken, 
Rome  has  triumph't  and  Britaine's  walls  had  shaken. 

She  was 

In  heart  a  Lydia,  and  in  tongue  a  Hanna, 
In  zeal  a  Ruth,  in  wedlock  a  Susanna, 
Prudently  simple,  providently  wary, 
To  the  world  a  Martha,  and  to  heaven  a  Mary. 

Ann  Baynard        ^>       x:^>       -^       <^       -v>       <^ 

these   I   might  add  that  learned    and   Ingenious 
young    Gentlewoman,    Mrs.    Ann    Baynard,    lately 
Deceased,  who,  as  Mr.  Prude  says,  in  her  Funeral  Sermon, 
even  in  her  green  years,  at  the  Age  of  Twenty  Three,  was 
arrived   to   the    Knowledge   of  a   Bearded   Philosopher ; 
254 


The  Paragons 

and  was  in  the  hard  and  Knotty  Arguments  of  Meta- 
physical Learning  a  most  nervous  and  subtle  Disputant. 
And  as  he  says,  It  is  not  long  since  that  she  took  great 
pains  to  perfect  her  Knowledge  in  the  Greek  Tongue,  that 
she  might  with  greater  Pleasure  read  that  Eloquent  Father 
St.  Chrysostome  in  his  own  Pure  and  Native  Style. 

Her  being  very  well  acquainted  with  the  Greek  Testa- 
ment, in  which  she  was  much  conversant,  was  a  great  Help 
to  improve  her  Skill  in  that  Language. 

She  compos'd  many  things  in  the  Latine  Tongue,  which 
were  Rare  and  Useful  in  their  kind ;  wherein  it  does  appear 
she  had  a  Beauty  in  her  Style  as  well  as  in  her  Counte- 
nance. She  still  coveted  more  and  more  Knowledge ;  and 
in  this  Particular  alone,  she  would  often  say,  It  was  a  sin  to 
be  contented  with  but  a  little.  .  .  . 

She  has  often  by  her  nervous  arguments,  and  the  Grace 
of  God  which  was  in  her,  put  to  silence  those  bold  men, 
who  have  attempted  (even  in  these  our  days,  when  the 
Light  of  the  Gospel  is  so  clearly  shining  among  us)  to 
revive  that  Old  and  Baffled  Heresie  of  Socinus  :  And  she 
did  much  lament  that  such  Lewd  opinions  should  gam  any 
Footing  or  the  least  Entertainment  among  those  that  pro- 
fess the  Religion  of  the  Crucify'd  Jesus.  .  .  . 

What  is  it  (saith  she)  to  be  so  skilful  in  Astronomy  as 
that  by  the  Motions  of  the  Heavens  we  can  foretel  things 
here  below,  if  we  never  study  by  our  Practices  to  come 
thither? 

What  is  it  to  be  so  skilful  in  Arithmetick,  as  that  we  can 
divide  and  sub-divide  to  the  smallest  fractions  ;  if  (as  God 
hath  revealed  unto  us  in  his  Holy  Word)  we  do  not  so 
learn  to  number  our  Days,  that  we  may  apply  our  Hearts 
unto  wisdom?  .  .  . 

When  just  upon  her  Departure  she  utter'd  these 
words :  —  I  desire  (says  she)  that  all  young  People  may 
255 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

be  exhorted  to  the  Practice  of  Vertue,  and  to  encrease 
their  Knowledge  by  the  study  of  Philosophy,  and  more 
especially  to  read  the  great  Book  of  Nature,  wherein  they 
may  see  the  Wisdom  and  Power  of  the  great  Creator,  in 
the  order  of  the  Universe',  and  in  the  Production,  and  Pres- 
ervation of  things  ;  for  Qu&libet  hcrba  Deum. 

This  was  a  Language  which  was  very  familiar  to  her ; 
and  if  you  would  know  the  English  of  it,  she  would  have 
you  to  understand  thus  much  by  it ;  that  the  least  Spire  of 
Grass,  as  well  as  the  Lillies  of  the  Field,  do  demonstrate 
the  Being  of  a  God.  .  .  . 

That  Women  (says  she)  are  capable  of  such  Improve- 
ments, which  will  better  their  Judgements  and  Under- 
standings, is  past  all  doubt ;  would  they  but  set  to't  in 
earnest,  and  spend  but  half  of  that  time  in  Study  and 
Thinking,  which  they  do  in  Visits,  Vanity  and  Toys.  - 

Timothy  Rogers 

Lady  Fitzgerald  ^^       -v^y        <ix       *o       *o 

SUCH  age  how  beautiful !  O  Lady  bright, 
Whose  mortal  lineaments  seem  all  refined 
By  favouring  nature  and  a  scanty  mind 
To  something  purer  and  more  exquisite 
Than  flesh  and  blood  ;  whene'er  thou  meef  st  my  sight, 
When  I  behold  thy  blanch'd  unwither'd  cheek, 
Thy  temples  fringed  with  locks  of  gleaming  white, 
And  head  that  droops  because  the  Soul  is  meek, 
Thee  with  the  welcome  Snowdrop  I  compare  : 
That  child  of  winter,  prompting  thoughts  that  climb 
From  desolation  toward  the  genial  prime ; 
Or  with  the  moon  conquering  earth's  misty  air, 
And  filling  more  and  more  with  crystal  light 
As  pensive  evening  deepens  into  night. 

William  Wordsworth 
256 


The   Paragons 

Frances  Dobbs  ^^>        ^v        *^        *^v         *o 

HERE  lyes  the  body  of  Frances  Dobbs,  daughter 
of  Edward  Dobbs,  rector  of  Great  Snoring  in 
Norfolk,  a  considerable  sufferer  for  the  Royal  Cause  m 
the  Reign  of  King  Charles  i.;  and,  as  if  virtues  were 
inheritable,  her  Father's  conscience  and  courage  seemed 
to  descend  to  her.  Her  Religion  having  the  ascendant, 
governed  the  niceties  of  practice  and  secured  the 
manner  and  the  end.  She  was  obliging  without 
flattery,  charitable  without  vanity,  and  generous  without 
design  ;  and,  by  despising  interest  and  hating  self-love, 
she  made  even  the  most  unfriendly  passions  serviceable 
and  inoffensive.  Her  singularities  were  always  to 
advantage,  being  unlike  her  neighbours  only  by  being 
better.  She  was  humble  but  not  mean,  pious  but  not 
morose.  Here  was  innocence  and  agreeableness, 
observance  and  reality,  friendship  and  plain-dealing, 
happily  proportioned,  and  joined  for  ornament  and 
defence ;  insomuch  that  she  seems  to  have  been  made 
for  model  and  example,  and  rather  for  others  than 
herself.  Her  patience  under  sickness  was  invincible, 
her  mind  easy  and  resigned ;  so  that  here  Death  may 
be  said  to  kill,  but  not  to  conquer,  the  force  of  it  being 
felt,  but  not  the  terrors ;  and  thus,  to  finish  life  to 
the  greater  exactness,  the  last  stroaks  were  bold  and 
beautiful. 

Jeremy  Taylor 

Incognita  <^x       *Qy       o       <«o       <^       *o 

SACRED  to  the  rare  and  fragrant  memory  of 
AN  UNKNOWN  LADY, 

who  took  off  her  hat  at  a  matinee  on  January  9,  1908, 
without  being  asked. 

s  257 


XXIII 
THE    BLUES 

How   generous  the  conduct  of  Mrs.  ,  who,  as  a  literary 

woman,  might  be  ugly  if  she  choose,  but  is  as  decidedly  handsome 
as  if  she  were  profoundly  ignorant !     I  call  such  conduct  honourable. 

Sydney  Smith 

Madge  Newcastle         *^y       "^       <^y       *^>-       <^y 

AS  for  my  Disposition,  it  is  more  inclining  to  be 
melancholy  than  merry,  but  not  crabbed  or 
peevishly  melancholy,  but  soft,  melting,  solitary,  and 
contemplating  melancholy ;  and  I  am  apt  to  weep  rather 
than  laugh  :  not  that  I  do  often  either  of  them ;  also  I  am 
tender  natured,  for  it  troubles  my  conscience  to  kill  a 
fly,  and  the  groans  of  a  dying  Beast  strike  my  soul.  Also 
where  I  place  a.  particular  affection,  I  love  extraordinarily 
and  constantly,  yet  not  fondly,  but  soberly  and  observ- 
ingly,  not  to  hang  about  them  as  a  trouble,  but  to  wait 
upon  them  as  a  servant;  but  this  affection  will  take  no 
root,  but  where  I  think  or  find  merit,  and  have  leave 
both  from  Divine  and  Morall  laws ;  yet  I  find  this  passion 
so  troublesome,  as  it  is  the  only  torment  to  my  life,  for 
fear  any  evill  misfortune  or  accident,  or  sickness,  or 
death,  should  come,  unto  them,  insomuch  as  I  am  never 
freely  at  rest.  Likewise  I  am  gratefull,  for  I  never 
258 


The  Blues 

received  a  courtesie  but  I  am  impatient  and  troubled 
untill  I  can  return  it.  Also  I  am  chaste,  both  by  Nature 
and  Education,  insomuch  as  I  do  abhorre  an  unchaste 
thought.  Likewise  I  am  seldom  angry,  as  my  servants 
may  witness  for  me,  for  I  rather  choose  to  suffer  some 
inconveniences  than  disturbe  my  thoughts,  which  makes 
me  winke  many  times  at  their  faultes ;  but  when  I  am 
angry,  I  am  very  angry,  but  yet  it  is  soon  over,  and  I  am 
easily  pacified,  if  it  be  not  such  an  injury  as  may  create  a 
hate.  Neither  am  I  apt  to  be  exceptions  or  jealous.  .  .  . 
Also  in  some  cases  I  am  naturally  a  coward,  and  in  other 
cases  very  valiant ;  as  for  example,  if  any  of  my  neerest 
friends  were  in  danger,  I  should  never  consider  my  life 
in  striving  to  help  them,  though  I  were  sure  to  do  them 
no  good,  and  would  willingly,  nay  cheerfully,  resign 
my  life  for  their  sakes :  likewise  I  should  not  spare  my 
Life,  if  Honour  bid  me  dye ;  but  in  a  danger  where  my 
Friends,  or  my  Honour  is  not  concerned,  or  engaged,  but 
only  my  Life  to  be  unprofitably  lost,  I  am  the  veriest 
Coward  in  Nature,  as  upon  the  Sea,  or  any  dangerous 
places,  or  of  Thieves,  or  fire,  or  the  like ;  nay  the  shooting 
of  a  gun,  although  but  a  pop-gun,  will  make  me  start, 
and  stop  my  hearing,  much  less  have  I  courage  to  dis- 
charge one ;  or  if  a  sword  should  be  held  against  me, 
although  but  in  jest,  I  am  afraid.  Also  as  I  am  not  covet- 
ous, so  I  am  not  prodigall,  but  of  the  two  I  am  inclining 
to  be  prodigall,  yet  I  cannot  say  to  a  vain  prodigallity, 
because  I  imagine  it  is  to  a  profitable  end  ;  for  perceiving 
the  world  is  given,  or  apt  to  honour  the  outside  more  than 
the  inside,  worshipping  show  more  than  substance ;  I  am 
so  vain,  if  it  be  vanity,  as  to  endeavour  to  be  worship't, 
rather  than  not  to  be  regarded ;  yet  I  shall  never  be  so 
prodigall  as  to  impoverish  my  friends,  or  go  beyond 
the  limits  or  facilitie  of  our  estate.  And  though  I  desire 
259 


The   Ladies'    Pageant 

to  appear  to  the  best  advantage,  whilst  I  live  in  the  view 
of  the  public  World,  yet  I  could  most  willingly  exclude 
myself,  so  as  never  to  see  the  face  of  any  creature,  but 
my  Lord,  as  long  as  I  live,  inclosing  myself  like  an 
Anchoret,  wearing  a  frieze  gown,  tied  with  a  cord  about 
my  waste.  But  I  hope  my  readers  will  not  think  me  vain 
for  writing  my  life,  since  there  have  been  many  that 
have  done  the  like,  as  Cesar,  Ovid,  and  many  more,  both 
men  and  women,  and  I  know  no  reason  I  may  not  do  it 
as  well  as  they :  but  I  verily  believe  some  censuring 
Readers  will  scornfully  say,  why  hath  this  Lady  writ  her 
own  Life  ?  since  none  cares  to  know  whose  daughter  she 
was,  or  whose  wife  she  is,  or  how  she  was  bred,  or  what 
fortunes  she  had,  or  how  she  lived,  or  what  humour  or 
disposition  she  was  of.  I  answer  that  it  is  true,  that 
'tis  to  no  purpose  to  the  Reader,  but  it  is  to  the  Authoress, 
because  I  write  it  for  my  own  sake,  not  theirs.  Neither 
did  I  intend  this  piece  for  to  delight,  but  to  divulge ; 
not  to  please  the  fancy,  but  to  tell  the  truth,  lest  after- 
ages  should  mistake,  in  not  knowing  I  was  daughter  to 
one  Master  Lucas  of  St.  Johns,  near  Colchester,  in 
Essex,  second  wife  to  the  Lord  Marquis  of  Newcastle ; 
for  my  Lord  having  had  two  wives,  I  might  easily  have 
been  mistaken,  especially  if  I  should  dye  and  my  Lord  \ 
marry  again. 

Margaret,  Duchess  of  Newcastle 


Mrs.  Siddons          ^y         ^>         ^y         -«o         <^y 

MR.  WYNDHAM:    In  our  female   boarding-schools, 
girls  should  undoubtedly  be  taught    those  useful 
arts,  which  will  qualify  them  for  the  duties  of  domestic 
life,  and  not  have  their  time  almost  wholly  occupied   in 
260 


The  Blues 

the  acquisition  of  ornamental  accomplishments.  A  taste 
for  drawing  and  music  is  certainly  very  proper  to  be 
cultivated,  in  those  females  who  are  intended  to  appear 
in  the  higher  classes  of  life :  but  for  those  who  are 
intended  to  be  the  wives  of  tradesmen,  the  more  useful 
arts  should  have  a  decided  preference. 

MRS.  WYNDHAM  :  As  our  daughter,  Maria,  will  have 
no  inconsiderable  fortune,  it  has  been  our  desire,  that 
she  should  have  some  knowledge  of  literature,  and  that 
she  might  not  be  destitute  of  any  of  those  ornamental 
accomplishments  that  might  become  a  woman  of  fashion : 
but  I  have  also  endeavoured  so  to  qualify  her  for  the 
duties  of  a  wife,  that  in  no  situation  she  might  be  found 
incapable  of  being  useful,  or  of  discharging  the  proper 
offices  of  a  virtuous  woman,  whether  in  prosperity  or  in 
adversity. 

Miss  MARIA  WYNDHAM  :  I  am  extremely  grateful, 
madam,  to  you  and  to  my  papa,  for  your  tender  anxiety 
for  my  welfare,  and  for  the  judicious  pains  that  have 
been  taken  in  my  education ;  and  I  hope  to  be  able  to 
evince,  that  your  care  has  not  been  thrown  away.  I 
am  convinced  of  the  importance  of  acquiring  that  species 
of  knowledge,  which  is  necessary  for  the  just  discharge 
of  those  relative  and  social  virtues  that  are  incumbent 
upon  females ;  and  I  would  also  acquire  some  knowledge 
of  an  higher  kind.  I  would  willingly  endeavour  to 
preserve  the  proper  medium  between  the  character  of  a 
woman  so  addicted  to  literature,  as  to  be  unfit  for  the 
ordinary  duties  of  life ;  and  of  a  woman  so  engrossed 
by  those  ordinary  duties,  and  common  cares,  as  never 
to  rise  above  the  vulgar  standard,  or  entertain  any 
sentiments  of  a  refined  or  elevated  nature.  I  would  aim 
261 


The   Ladies'   Pageant 

to  be  what  a  woman  ought  to  be  in  polished  society ;  I 
would  not  neglect  the  ornamental  accomplishments  ;  but 
I  would  chiefly  aspire  after  those  virtues  which  are  most 
honourable  to  our  sex,  and  which  are  pointed  out  to  us 
by  nature  and  by  reason. 

MRS.  WYNDHAM  :  My  dear  Maria,  I  greatly  applaud 
your  sentiments.  Your  beauty  will  fade,  and  years  will 
remove  your  personal  attractions.  But  if  your  heart  be 
formed  to  virtue,  and  your  mind  be  well  cultivated,  you 
will  continue,  even  in  the  decline  of  life,  to  be  esteemed 
and  beloved. 

Dialogues  Concerning  the  Ladies  (1785) 


Lydia  White       ^       <s>       o       ^       o       ^> 

DO  you  know  Byron's  literary  eclogue,  "  The  Blues  "  ? 
No  ?     Well,  well,  this  isn't  a  literary  examination, 
and  moreover  Byron  himself  called   this  skit   on  "  blue- 
stocking" society  a  "mere   buffoonery  never  meant   for 
publication."     But  in  it  occur  these  lines  : 

LADY  BLUEBOTTLE  :  "  Well,  now  we  break  up ; 
But  remember,  Miss  Diddle  invites  us  to  sup." 

INKEL  :  "  Then  at  two  hours  past  midnight  we'll  all  meet  again, 
For  the  sciences,  sandwiches,  hock,  and  champagne." 

Here,  Miss  Diddle  is  no  other  than  the  clever,  eccentric, 
learned,  wealthy,  soiree-giving  Miss  Lydia  White,  of 
No.  113  Park  Street,  Grosvenor  Square.  Let  us  lift  the 
curtain  without  more  ado  on  one  of  her  dinners  and  one 
of  her  witticisms.  Byron's  friend  and  old  Harrow 
schoolfellow,  the  Rev.  William  Harness,  writes  to  a 
brother  clergyman  :  "  At  one  of  Miss  Lydia  White's  small 
262 


The  Blues 

and  most  agreeable  dinners  in  Park  Street  the  company 
(most  of  them,  except  the  hostess,  being  Whigs)  were 
discussing  in  rather  a  querulous  strain  the  desperate 
prospects  of  their  party.  '  Yes,'  said  Sydney  Smith, 
'we  are  in  a  most  deplorable  condition.  We  must  do 
something  to  help  ourselves ;  I  think  we  had  better 
sacrifice  a  Tory  virgin.'  This  was  pointedly  addressed 
to  Lydia  White,  who  at  once,  catching  and  applying 
the  allusion  to  Iphigenia,  answered,  '  I  believe  there  is 
nothing  the  Whigs  would  not  do  to  raise  the  "wind."1  " 
Lydia  White  was  said  to  have  been  a  figure  not  only 
in  Park  Street,  but  in  every  capital  in  Europe.  In  a 
catalogue  of  English  visitors  at  Naples  in  1828  George 
Ticknor  has  her  as  "  Miss  Lydia  White,  the  fashionable 
blue-stocking."  Just  twenty  years  earlier  than  this,  Sir 
Walter  Scott  had  witnessed  her  progress  through  the 
drawing-rooms  of  Edinburgh.  In  1808  he  writes:  "We 
have  here  a  very  diverting  lion  and  sundry  beasts  ;  but 
the  most  meritorious  is  Miss  Lydia  White,  who  is  what 
Oxonians  call  a  lioness  of  the  first  order,  with  stockings 
nineteen  times  dyed  blue,  very  lively,  very  good- 
humoured,  and  extremely  absurd.  It  is  very  diverting 
to  see  the  sober  Scotch  ladies  staring  at  this 
phenomenon."  Lydia  White  even  travelled  a  little 
with  the  Scotts.  She  and  Mrs.  Scott  sketched  together, 
Scott  remarking  that  their  cataracts  looked  like  hay- 
cocks, and  their  rocks  like  "  old-fashioned  cabinets  with 
their  folding-doors  open."  You  will  find  much  about 
Lydia  White  in  Moore's  Diary  and  in  Samuel  Rogers's 
Table  Talk.  Rogers  said  of  Miss  White  in  1826: 
"How  wonderfully  she  does  hold  out!  They  may  say 
what  they  will,  but  Miss  White  and  Missolonghi  are  the 
most  remarkable  things  going." 

To  the    last,  with    a    pathetic    fortitude,    Miss   White 
z63 


The   Ladies'    Pageant 

kept  her  little  ball  rolling  in  Park  Street.  Only  a  year 
after  Rogers  paid  the  above  tribute  to  her  staying 
powers,  Lydia  White  died,  and  Scott  made  this  entry 
in  his  Journal :  "  Hear  of  Miss  White's  death.  Poor 
Lydia!  She  had  a  party  at  dinner  on  the  Friday  before, 
and  had  written  with  her  own  hand  invitations  for 
another  party.  Twenty  years  ago  she  used  to  tease 
me  with  her  youthful  affectations  —  her  dressing  like  the 
Queen  of  Chimney-sweeps  on  May  Day  morning,  and 
sometimes  with  rather  a  free  turn  in  conversation,  when 
she  let  her  wit  run  wild.  But  she  was  a  woman  of  much 
wit,  and  had  a  feeling  and  kind  heart.  She  made  her 
point  good,  a  bas-dleu  in  London  to  a  point  not  easily 
attained,  and  contrived  to  have  every  evening  a  very 
good  literary  melde,  and  little  dinners  which  were 
very  entertaining.  She  had  also  the  newest  lions  upon 
town.  In  a  word  she  was  not,  and  would  not,  be 
forgotten  even  when  disease  obliged  her,  as  it  did  for 
years,  to  confine  herself  to  her  couch ;  and  the  world, 
much  abused  for  hard-heartedness,  was  kind  in  her  case 
—  so  she  lived  in  the  society  she  liked.  No  great 
expenditure  was  necessary  for  this.  She  had  an  easy 
fortune,  but  not  more.  Poor  Lydia!  I  saw  the  Duke 
of  York  and  her  in  London,  when  Death,  it  seems,  was 
brandishing  his  dart  over  them. 

"  '  The  view  o1t  gave  them  little  fright.''  " 

Wilfred  Whitten 


The  Blue  Stockings       ^       ^>       -o       *Sx       *o 

I  CANNOT  name  all  who  thus  issued  from  air, 
As  the  god  made  us  see  them ;  —  but  Sappho  was 
there, 

264 


The  Blues 

As  brown  as  a  berry,  and  little  of  size ; 
But  lord !  with  such  midnight  and  love  in  her  eyes ! 
Aspasia's,  however,  we  thought  still  more  loving ; 
Heart  sat  in  their  pupils,  and  gentlest  approving. 
We  saw  (only  fancy  it!)  Pericles  hand  her; 
And  both  (I  can  testify)  look'd  up  at  Landor. 
Of  Romans  (whose  women  more  startle  than  lull  us) 
Came  none  but  the  dame  that's  bound  up  with  Tibullus ; 
But  France  furnished  many,  and  Italy  fair; 
The  laurel  look'd  sweet  in  their  wild  flowing  hair ; 
Colonna  came  noble,  in  widow's  black  gown  ; 
And  Stampa,  who  worshipp'd  a  living  renown  ; 
Navarre's  fair  Boccaccio  ;  the  Rope-maker  too ; 
Deshoulieres,  kind  and  pensive ;  De  Launay  the  true ; 
Sevigne,  good  mother,  a  little  too  fussy, 
But  how,  when  she  will,  she  beats  Walpole  and  Bussy! 
Old  selfish  Du  DefTand,  more  knowing  than  wise ; 
And  Genlis  didactic,  and  D'Houdetot's  eyes ; 
And  de  Stall,  mighty  mistress,  par  Napoleoni, 
(For  so  he  would  make  her),  and  dear  Riccoboni; 
Then  Newcastle's  Duchess,  fantastic  but  rare ; 
And  Behn  and  Centlivre,  that  plain-spoken  pair; 
And  Wortley,  who,  had  she  been  bred  in  a  harem, 
Had  turn'd  it,  infallibly,  all  harum  scarum  ; 
And  sweet  Brooke  aforesaid,  all  cover'd  with  may, 
And  Lady  Ann,  lovely  for  ''  Auld  Robin  Gray"  ; 
And  dearest  dear  Winchelsea,  whom  I  prefer, 
After  all,  she  so  jumps  with  me,  even  to  her : 
(For  although  Lady  Ann  lov'd  maternity,  she 
Lov'd  love  and  the  trees  so,  she  might  have  lov'd  me)  ; 
But  I  see  high-born  Devonshire,  who  with  such  pith 
Wrote   of    Tell   and    his   platform ;    and   poor    Charlotte 
Smith. 

Leigh  Hunt 
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The  Ladies'  Pageant 

Regina's  Maids  of  Honour        xv>       ^>       ^>       -o 

"I17HAT  are  they  doing?  what  they  should;  with 
»  •  volant  tongue  and  chatty  cheer,  welcoming  in,  by 
prattle  good,  or  witty  phrase,  or  comment  shrewd,  the 
opening  of  the  gay  new  year.  Mrs.  Hall,  so  fair  and 
true,  bids  her  brilliant  eyes  to  glow,  —  eyes  the  brightest 
of  the  Nine  would  be  but  too  proud  to  show.  Outlaw 
he,  and  Buccaneer,  who'd  refuse  to  worship  here.  And 
next  the  mistress  of  the  shell  (not  of  lobster  but  the  lyre), 
see  the  lovely  L.  E.  L.,  talks  with  tongue  that  will  not 
tire.  True,  she  turns  away  her  face,  out  of  pity  to  us 
men;  but  the  swan-like  neck  we  trace,  and  the  figure 
full  of  grace,  and  the  mignon  hand  whose  pen  wrote  the 
Golden  Violet,  and  the  Literary  Gazette,  and  Francesco's 
mournful  story  (isn't  she  painted  con  amore  ?).  Who  is 
next  ?  Miladi  dear.  Glad  are  we  to  see  you  here. 
Naughty  fellows,  we  must  plead,  that  with  voice  of  angry 
organ,  once  or  twice  we  did,  indeed,  speak  not  civilly  of 
Morgan ;  but  we  must  retract,  repent,  promise  better  to 
behave.  She,  we  are  certain,  will  consent,  all  our  former 
feuds  to  waive;  and  as  we  know  she  hates  O'Connell, 
who  calls  her  now  a  blockhead  old,  we  shall  say  that  in 
CPDonneU,  and  in  other  tales  she  told,  there  is  many  a 
page  of  fun,  —  many  a  bit  for  hearty  laughing,  —  some  to 
shed  a  tear  upon,  —  some  to  relish  while  we're  quaffing ; 
and  that  she  can  use  the  mawleys,  she  has  shown  upon 
the  "  Crawleys."  Prate  away,  then,  good  Miladi,  —  gossip, 
gossip,  bore  and  bore,  —  all  for  him,  who  to  the  shady 
grove  has  gone  for  years  a  score,  —  for  the  sake  of  old 
Macowen,  and  his  song  of  "  Modereen  Roo,"  —  for  your 
father's  sake  we  are  going  never  more  to  bother  you. 

Full   the   face,  that    flashes   near    her ;   can  we   draw 
away   our    gaze  ?      Vision    nobler,   brighter,   dearer,   did 
266 


The   Blues 

ne'er  on  human  eyeball  blaze.  Front  sublime  and  orb 
of  splendour,  glance  that  every  thought  can  speak ; 
feeling  proud,  or  pathos  tender,  the  lid  to  wet,  to  burn  the 
cheek;  or,  my  halting  rhyme  to  shorten,  can't  I  say  'tis 
Mrs.  Norton?  Heiress  of  a  race  to  whom  genius  his 
constant  boon  has  given,  through  long  descended  lines 
to  bloom  in  wit  of  Earth  or  strains  of  Heaven!  Oh!  if 
thy  Wandering  Jew  had  seen  those  sunny  eyes,  those 
locks  of  jet,  how  vain,  how  trifling  would  have  been  the 
agony  of  fond  regret  which  in  thy  strains  he's  made  to 
feel  for  the  creatures  of  thy  brain,  —  those  wounds  thou 
say'st  he  lived  to  heal,  —  thee  lost,  he  ne'er  had  loved 
again !  Oh,  gorgeous  Countess ! l  gayer  notes  for  all  that's 
charming,  sweet  and  smiling,  for  her  whose  pleasant  tales 
our  throats  are  ever  with  fresh  laughs  beguiling.  Say, 
shall  we  call  thee  bright  and  fair,  enchanting,  winning? 
but,  no!  far  hence  such  praise  as  ours;  what  need  she 
care  for  aught  beyond  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence?  Go,  try 
to  read,  although  his  quill  is  too  mean  and  dull,  what  she 
inspired  even  in  so  great  a  sumph  as  Willis ;  and  if  that 
Yankee  boy  admired,  who  can  a  Christian  person  blame, 
if  he,  all  Countess-smit,  pretends  that,  if  she  lets  him 
near  the  flame  of  her  warm  glance  he'd  think  it  shame 
that,  like  her  book,  she  and  he  should  look  as  nothing 
nearer  than  two  friends  ? 

Our  Muse  then,  in   a  hurry,  passes   the  pretty  ladies 

by  the  glasses,  and  comes  to  where  Miss  Porter  (Jane)  is 

her  sweet   cup  of  coffee  stirring,  and  in  a  soft  and  easy 

strain  of  Mrs.  Skinner's  parties  purring.     Miss  Martineau, 

with  serious  brow,  beside  the  author  fair  of  Thaddeus,  is 

meditating,  grimly,  how  she  can  prevent  the  very  bad  use 

that  people  have  in  this  sad  earth  of  putting  things  into 

confusion,  by  giving  certain  matters    birth,   in   spite    of 

1  Of  Blessington. 

267 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

theories  Malthusian.  And  last,  the  jolliest  of  them  all, 
soft-seated  on  a  well-filled  bustle,  her  coffee  sips,  by 
Mrs.  Hall — dear,  darling  Mitford  (Mary  Russell).  Long 
may  she  live  with  graphic  touch  (though  Croquis  paint 
her  here  left-handed)  our  English  scenes  in  pencillings 
Dutch,  as  neat  as  ever  Douw  commanded,  in  all  their 
easy,  quiet  beauty  —  their  modest  forms,  or  grave,  or  gay, 
—  their  homely  cares,  their  honest  duty,  with  heart  all 
English  to  display. 

Dr.  Maginn 


Miss  Harriet  Martineau  <^        ^>        ^> 

COME,  let  us  touch  the  string, 
And  try  a  song  to  sing, 

Though  this  is  somewhat  difficult  at  starting,  O! 
And  in  pur  case  more  than  ever, 
When  a  desperate  endeavour, 
Is  made  to  sing  the  praise  of  Harry  Martineau! 

We  might  get  on  pretty  well, 

With  the  pretty  L.  E.  L., 
Our  compliments  unlimitedly  carting,  O! 

We'd  call  her  fair,  not  wise, 

And  we'd  laud  her  laughing  eyes, — 
But  this  would  never  do  with  Harry  Martineau ! 

For  wisdom  is  her  forte ; 

And,  Lord  knows,  to  pay  your  court, 
To  women  who  talk  wisdom  is  departing,  O ! 

From  the  very  laws  of  chatter, 

Which,  like  the  laws  of  matter, 
Shine  clear  before  the  soul  of  Harry  Martineau! 
268 


The  Blues 

Oh!  how  she  shows  her  reading, 

When  she  writes  about  good  breeding, 
And   tells   us   what   good   house-wives   have   their   heart 
in,  O! 

She  points  the  way  to  riches, 

If  they  would  resign  the  breeches  — 
But  that  is  all  my  eye  to  Harry  Martineau! 

She'll  also  tell  you  how,  man, 

To  be  a  perfect  ploughman, 
And  how  to  give  a  pound  a  touch  at  parting,  O! 

That'll  bring  it  back  again, 

With  a  rich  attendant  train, 
But  what  we  fear's  my  eye  and  Harry  Martineau! 

Of  bacon,  eggs,  and  butter, 

Rare  philosophy  she'll  utter ; 
Not  a  thing  about  your  house  but  she'll  take  part  in,  O! 

As  to  mine,  with  all  my  soul, 

She  might  take  (and  pay)  the  whole  — 
But  that  is  all  my  eye  and  Harry  Martineau! 

Her  political  economy 

Is  as  true  as  Deuteronomy: 
And  the  monster  of  Distress  she  sticks  a  dart  in,  O! 

Yet  still  he  stalks  about, 

And  makes  a  mighty  rout, 
But  that  we  hope's  my  eye  and  Harry  Martineau ! 

So  having  said  my  say,  sir, 
And  done  my  best  to  praise  her,  — 
A  task,  which,  when  a  youngster,  I'd  some  art  in,  O! 
As  perhaps  I  may  have  now,  sir,  — 
With  this  I  make  my  bow,  sir, — 
All  lustre  to  the  eyes  of  Harry  Martineau! 

Dr.  Maginn 
269 


The    Ladies'    Pageant 

The  Countess  of  Blessington    ^y       <ix       <^x       <^y 

"  T    ADY    BLESSINGTON ! "    cried   the    glad   usher 

-L        aioud, 
As   she   swam   through  the  doorway,  like  moon   from   a 

cloud ; 
I  know   not  which    most    her  face    beam'd  with  —  fine 

creature ! — 

Enjoyment,  or  judgment,  or  wit,  or  good  nature. 
Perhaps  you  have  known  what  it  is  to  feel  longings 
To  pat  silken  shoulders  at  routs,  and  such  throngings ;  — 
Well,  think  what  it  is  with  a  vision  like  that !  — 
A  grace  after  dinner!  a  Venus  grown  fat! 
Some  "  elderly  gentleman  "  risk'd  an  objection ; 
But  this  only  made  us  all  swear  her  "  perfection." 
His  arms  the  host  threw  round  the  liberal  bodice, 
And  kiss'd  her,  exactly  as  god  might  do  goddess. 

Leigh  Hunt 

Lady  Morgan     ^>       *cy       o       <^v       -^y       -^ 

AND     dear    Lady    Morgan  !     Look,    look    how    she 
comes, 

With  her  pulses  all  beating  for  freedom  like  drums  ; 
So  Irish,  so  modish,  so  mixtish,  so  wild, 
So  committing  herself,  as  she  talks,  like  a  child ; 
So  trim,  yet  so  easy ;  petite,  yet  big-hearted, 
That  truth  and  she,  try  all  she  can,  won't  be  parted. 

She'll  put  on  your  fashions,  your  latest  new  air, 

And  then  talk  so  frankly,  she'll  make  you  all  stare  ;  — 

Mrs.  Hall   may  say    "  Oh,"   and    Miss    Edgeworth    say 

"Fie," 

But  my  lady  will  know  all  the  what  and  the  why. 
270 


The  Blues 

Her  books,  a  like  mixture,  are  so  very  clever, 
The  god  himself  swore  he  could  read  them  for  ever; 
Plot,  character,  freakishness,  all  are  so  good ; 
And  the  heroine's  herself  playing  tricks  in  a  hood. 
So  he  kiss'd  her,  and  called  her  "  eternal  good  wench  " ; 
But  asked,  Why  the  devil  she  spoke  so  much  French  ? 

Dr.  Maginn 

Maria  Edgeworth          ^^       *^v       *o       *o       ^o 

AT    the    sight    of  Miss    Edgeworth,    he     said,     Here 
comes  one. 

As  sincere  and  as  kind  as  lives  under  the  sun ; 
Not  poetical,  eh  ?  —  not  much  giv'n  to  insist 
On  utilities  not  in  utility's  list 

(Things,  nevertheless,  without  which  the  large  heart 
Of  my  world  would  but  play  a  poor  husk  of  a  part), 
But  most  truly,  within  her  own  sphere,  sympathetic, 
And  that's  no  mean  help  tow'rds  the  practic-poetic. 
Then,  smiling,  he  said  a  most  singular  thing, — 
He  thank'd  her  for  making  him  "  saving  of  string"! 
But  for  fear  she  should  fancy  he  didn't  approve  her  in 
Matters  more  weighty,  prais'd  much  her  "  Manoeuvring," 
A  book,  which  if  aught  could  pierce  craniums  so  dense, 
Might  supply  cunning  folks  with  a  little  good  sense. 
And  her  Irish  (he  added)  poor  souls  !  so  impress'd  him, 
He  knew  not  if  most  they  amus'd  or  distress'd  him. 

Leigh  Hunt 

Mrs.  Norton       ^y       ^y       <^y       <^>       *o       <2y 

WHEN    I    first     knew    Caroline    Sheridan,   she   had 
not    long    been    married     to    the    Hon.    George 
Norton.      She    was   splendidly    handsome,     of    an    un- 

271 


The    Ladies'    Pageant 

English  character  of  beauty,  her  rather  large  and  heavy 
head  and  features  recalling  the  grandest  Grecian  and 
Italian  models,  to  the  latter  of  whom  her  rich  colouring 
and  blue-black  braids  of  hair  gave  her  an  additional 
resemblance. 

Though  neither  as  perfectly  lovely  as  the  Duchess  of 
Somerset,  nor  as  perfectly  charming  as  Lady  Dufferin, 
she  produced  a  far  more  striking  impression  than  either 
of  them,  by  the  combination  of  the  poetical  genius  with 
which  she  alone,  of  the  three,  was  gifted,  with  the 
brilliant  wit  and  power  of  repartee  which  they  (especially 
Lady  Dufferin)  possessed  in  common  with  her,  united 
to  the  exceptional  beauty  with  which  they  were  all 
three  endowed.  Mrs.  Norton  was  extremely  epigram- 
matic in  her  talk,  and  comically  dramatic  in  her 
manner  of  narrating  things.  I  do  not  know  whether 
she  had  any  theatrical  talent,  though  she  sang  pathetic 
and  humorous  songs  admirably,  and  I  remember 
shaking  in  my  shoes  when,  soon  after  I  came  out,  she 
told  me  she  envied  me,  and  would  give  anything  to  try 
the  stage  herself.  I  thought,  as  I  looked  at  her  wonder- 
ful, beautiful  face,  "Oh,  if  you  should,  what  would 
become  of  me  ! "  She  was  no  musician,  but  had  a 
deep,  sweet  contralto  voice,  precisely  the  same  in  which 
she  always  spoke,  and  which,  combined  with  her  always 
lowered  eyelids  (  "  downy  eyelids  "  with  sweeping  silken 
fringes),  gave  such  an  incomparably  comic  effect  to  her 
sharp  retorts  and  ludicrous  stories  ;  and  she  sang 
with  great  effect  her  own  and  Lady  Dufferin's  social 
satires,  "Fanny  Grey"  and  "Miss  Myrtle,"  etc.,  and 
sentimental  songs  like  "  Would  I  were  with  Thee,"  "  I 
dreamt  'twas  but  a  Dream,"  etc.,  of  which  the  words 
were  her  own,  and  the  music,  which  only  amounted  to 
a  few  chords  with  the  simplest  modulations,  her  own 
272 


The  Blues 

also.  I  remember  she  used  occasionally  to  convulse  her 
friends  en  petit  comite  with  a  certain  absurd  song  called 
"  The  Widow,1'  to  all  intents  and  purposes  a  piece  of 
broad  comedy,  the  whole  story  of  which  (the  wooing  of 
a  disconsolate  widow  by  a  rich  lover,  whom  she  first 
rejects  and  then  accepts)  was  comprised  in  a  few  words, 
rather  spoken  than  sung,  eked  out  by  a  ludicrous 
burthen  of  "  rum-ti-iddy-iddy-iddy-ido,"  which,  by  dint  of 
her  countenance  and  voice,  conveyed  all  the  alternations 
of  the  widow's  first  despair,  her  lover's  fiery  declaration, 
her  virtuous  indignation  and  wrathful  rejection  of  him, 
his  cool  acquiescence  and  intimation  that  his  full  purse 
assured  him  an  easy  acceptance  in  various  other 
quarters,  her  rage  and  disappointment  at  his  departure, 
and  final  relenting  and  consent  on  his  return ;  all  of 
which  with  her  "  iddy-iddy-ido  "  she  sang,  or  rather  acted, 
with  incomparable  humour  and  effect. 

Fanny  Kemble 

Lady  Joan  Fitz-Warene  <^x       -v^       <>x       *^x 

LADY  JOAN  FITZ-WARENE  only  required  a  lis- 
tener ;  she  did  not  make  inquiries  like  Lady  Maud, 
or  impart  her  own  impressions  by  suggesting  them  as  your 
own.  Lady  Joan  gave  Egremont  an  account  of  the  Aztec 
cities,  of  which  she  had  been  reading  that  morning,  and  of 
the  several  historical  theories  which  their  discovery  had 
suggested ;  then  she  imparted  her  own,  which  differed 
from  all,  but  which  seemed  clearly  the  right  one.  Mexico 
led  to  Egypt.  Lady  Joan  was  as  familiar  with  the 
Pharaohs  as  with  the  Caciques  of  the  New  World.  The 
phonetic  system  was  despatched  by  the  way.  Then 
came  Champollion ;  then  Paris ;  then  all  its  celebrities, 
literary  and  especially  scientific ;  then  came  the  letter 
T  273 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

from  Arago  received  that  morning ;  and  the  letter  from 
Dr.  Buckland  expected  to-morrow.  She  was  delighted 
that  one  had  written ;  wondered  why  the  other  had 
not.  Finally,  before  the  ladies  had  retired,  she  had 
invited  Egremont  to  join  Lady  Marney  in  a  visit  to  her 
observatory,  where  they  were  to  behold  a  comet  which 
she  had  been  the  first  to  detect. 

J3.  Disraeli 


Literary  Ladies  xo       ^y       o       <^y       <^y 

A  S  to  the  position  of  the  body  when  at  work,  that  is 
**•  as  you  please.  I  generally  found  George  Eliot 
doubled  up  on  a  sofa,  her  legs  up  under  her,  heaps  of 
robes,  and  a  pad  on  her  lap.  I  read  that  Mrs.  Browning 
always  wrote  in  bed.  I  know  that  Mrs.  Wagner  — 
Madge  Morris  —  does;  while  Miss  Coolbrith  writes, 
she  tells  me,  on  her  feet,  going  along  about  her  affairs 
till  her  poem  is  complete,  and  then  writing  it  down 
exactly  as  she  has  framed  it  in  her  mind.  Harriet 
Prescott  Spofford  writes  on  a  pad  in  her  lap  in  the  parlour, 
under  the  trees  with  a  party,  takes  part  in  the  talk  as 
she  writes,  and  is  generally  the  brightest  of  the  company. 
Lady  Hardy  told  me  she  could  only  write  with  her  face 
to  the  blank  wall,  while  Mrs.  Braddon,  the  prolific, 
showed  me  her  desk  bowered  in  her  Richmond  Hill 
garden,  where  she  wrote  to  the  song  of  birds  about  forty 
popular  novels. 

Joaquin  Miller 

By  permission  of  the  author. 


274 


XXIV 
CHARACTERS 


Mrs.  Freeland 


1HE  drank  good  ale,  strong  punch  and  wine, 
And  lived  to  the  age  of  ninety-nine. 

Epitaph  in  Edwalton  Churchyard 


Mrs.  Cotton        ^       -^       ^       -Qy       ^       <^ 

HERE  [at  Gloucester]  is  a  modernity  which  beats  all 
antiquities  for  curiosity :  just  by  the  high  altar 
is  a  small  pew  hung  with  green  damask,  with  curtains 
of  the  same ;  a  small  corner  cupboard,  painted,  carved, 
and  gilt,  for  books,  in  one  corner,  and  two  troughs  of 
a  bird-cage,  with  seeds  and  water.  If  any  mayoress  on 
earth  was  small  enough  to  enclose  herself  in  this 
tabernacle,  or  abstemious  enough  to  feed  on  rape  and 
canary,  I  should  have  sworn  that  it  was  the  shrine  of 
the  queen  of  the  aldermen.  It  belongs  to  a  Mrs. 
Cotton,  who  having  lost  a  favourite  daughter,  is  con- 
vinced her  soul  is  transmigrated  into  a  robin-redbreast ; 
for  which  reason  she  passes  her  life  in  making  an  aviary 
275 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

of  the  Cathedral  of  Gloucester.  The  Chapter  indulge 
this  whim,  as  she  contributes  abundantly  to  glaze,  white- 
wash, and  ornament  the  church. 

Horace  Walpole 

Mrs.  Holman      <^x       ^>       ^>       <^       ^>       ^> 

"\7~OU  would  be  more  diverted  with  a  Mrs.  Holman, 
-*-  whose  passion  is  keeping  an  assembly,  and  inviting 
literally  everybody  to  it.  She  goes  to  the  drawing-room 
to  watch  for  sneezes ;  whips  out  a  curtsey,  and  then 
sends  next  morning  to  know  how  your  cold  does,  and  to 
desire  your  company  next  Thursday. 

Horace  Walpole 

Another  Widow  ^^>       ^>       ^>       *o       -^ 

HER  house,  I  am  told,  must  have  been  built  and 
furnished  about  the  time  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison  : 
everything  about  it  is  somewhat  formal  and  stately ;  but 
has  been  softened  down  into  a  degree  of  voluptuousness, 
characteristic  of  an  old  lady  very  tender  hearted  and 
romantic,  and  that  loves  her  ease.  The  cushions  of  the 
great  arm-chair  and  wide  sofas  almost  bury  you  when 
you  sit  down  in  them.  Flowers  of  the  most  rare  and 
delicate  kind  are  placed  about  the  rooms  and  on  little 
japanned  stands ;  and  sweet  bags  lie  about  the  tables  and 
mantle-pieces.  The  house  is  full  of  pet-dogs,  Angola 
cats,  and  singing  birds,  who  are  as  carefully  waited  upon 
as  she  is  herself. 

She  is  dainty  in  her  living,  and  a  little  of  an  epicure, 

living  on  white  meats ;  and  little  lady-like  dishes,  though 

her  servants  have  substantial  English  fare,  as  their  looks 

bear  witness.     Indeed,  they  are  so  indulged,  that  they  are 

276 


Characters 

all  spoiled,  and  when  they  leave  their  present  place,  they 
will  be  fit  for  no  other.  Her  ladyship  is  one  of  those  lazy 
tempered  beings  that  are  always  doomed  to  be  much 
liked,  and  but  ill  served  by  their  domestics,  and  cheated 
by  all  the  world. 

Much  of  her  time  is  passed  in  reading  novels,  of  which 
she  has  an  extensive  library,  and  has  a  constant  supply 
from  the  publishers  in  town.  Her  erudition  in  this  line 
of  literature  is  immense:  she  has  kept  pace  with  the 
press  for  half  a  century.  Her  mind  is  stuffed  with  love- 
tales  of  all  kinds,  from  the  stately  amours  of  the  old  books 
of  chivalry  down  to  the  best  blue-covered  romance, 
reeking  from  the  press :  though  she  evidently  gives  the 
preference  to  those  that  came  out  in  the  days  of  her 
youth,  and  when  she  was  first  in  love.  .  .  . 

She  does  a  vast  deal  of  good  in  her  neighbourhood, 
and  is  imposed  upon  by  every  beggar  in  the  country. 
She  is  the  benefactress  of  a  village  adjoining  to  her 
estate,  and  takes  a  special  interest  in  all  its  love-affairs. 
She  knows  of  every  courtship  that  is  going  on ;  every 
love-lorn  damsel  is  sure  to  find  a  patient  listener  and  a 
sage  adviser  in  her  ladyship.  She  takes  great  pains  to 
reconcile  all  love-quarrels,  and  should  any  faithless  swain 
persist  in  his  inconstancy,  he  is  sure  to  draw  on  himself 
the  good  lady's  violent  indignation. 

Washington  Irving 


The  Marchioness  of  Hampshire          <ix       ^^       ^> 

LADY  HAMPSHIRE  was  an  invalid  ;  but  her  ailment 
was  one  of  those  mysteries  which  still  remained  in- 
soluble, although,  in  the  most  liberal  manner,  she  delighted 
to  afford  her  friends  all  the  information   in    her   power. 

277 


The  Ladies'  Pageant 

Never  was  a  votary  endowed  with  a  faith  at  once  so 
lively  and  so  capricious.  Each  year  she  believed  in 
some  new  remedy,  and  announced  herself  on  the  eve  of 
some  miraculous  cure.  But  the  saint  was  scarcely 
canonised  before  his  claims  to  beatitude  were  impugned. 
One  year  Lady  Hampshire  never  quitted  Leamington; 
another,  she  contrived  to  combine  the  infinitesimal  doses 
of  Hahnemann  with  the  colossal  distractions  of  the 
metropolis.  Now  her  sole  conversation  was  the  water 
cure.  Lady  Hampshire  was  to  begin  immediately  after 
her  visit  to  Montacute,  and  she  spoke  in  her  sawney  voice 
of  factitious  enthusiasm,  as  if  she  pitied  the  lot  of  all 
those  who  were  not  about  to  sleep  in  wet  sheets. 

B.  Disraeli 

Mrs.  Elton        ^>       ^y       <^.        <^y       -v>       <^ 

r~pHE  very  first  subject,  after  being  seated,  was  Maple 
•*•  Grove,  "  My  brother,  Mr.  Suckling's  seat ;  "  a  com- 
parison of  Hartfield  to  Maple  Grove.  The  grounds  of 
Hartfield  were  small,  but  neat  and  pretty ;  and  the 
house  was  modern  and  well-built.  Mrs.  Elton  seemed 
most  favourably  impressed  by  the  size  of  the  room,  the 
entrance,  and  all  that  she  could  see  or  imagine.  "Very 
like  Maple  Grove  indeed !  She  was  quite  struck  by 
the  likeness!  —  That  room  was  the  very  shape  and  size 
of  the  morning-room  at  Maple  Grove ;  her  sister's 
favourite  room."  Mr.  Elton  was  appealed  to.  "Was 
not  it  astonishingly  like?  —  She  could  really  almost 
fancy  herself  at  Maple  Grove. 

"  And  the  staircase.  —  You  know,  as  I  came  in,  I 
observed  how  very  like  the  staircase  was ;  placed 
exactly  in  the  same  part  of  the  house.  I  really  could 
not  help  exclaiming!  I  assure  you,  Miss  Woodhouse, 
it  is  very  delightful  to  me  to  be  reminded  of  a  place  I 
278 


Characters 

am  so  extremely  partial  to  as  Maple  Grove.  I  have 
spent  so  many  happy  months  there ! "  (with  a  little 
sigh  of  sentiment).  "A  charming  place,  undoubtedly. 
Everybody  who  sees  it  is  struck  by  its  beauty;  but  to 
me  it  has  been  quite  a  home.  Whenever  you  are  trans- 
planted, like  me,  Miss  Woodhouse,  you  will  understand 
how  very  delightful  it  is  to  meet  with  anything  at  all 
like  what  one  has  left  behind.  I  always  say  this  is 
quite  one  of  the  evils  of  matrimony." 

Emma  made  as  slight  a  reply  as  she  could ;  but  it 
was  fully  sufficient  for  Mrs.  Elton,  who  only  wanted  to 
be  talking  herself. 

"  So  extremely  like  Maple  Grove!  And  it  is  not 
merely  the  house;  the  grounds,  I  assure  you,  as  far 
as  I  could  observe,  are  strikingly  like.  The  laurels  at 
Maple  Grove  are  in  the  same  profusion  as.  here,  and 
stand  very  much  in  the  same  way  —  just  across  the 
lawn;  and  I  had  a  glimpse  of  a  fine  large  tree,  with  a 
bench  round  it,  which  put  me  so  exactly  in  mind ! 
My  brother  and  sister  will  be  enchanted  with  this 
place.  People  who  have  extensive  grounds  them- 
selves are  always  pleased  with  anything  in  the  same 
style." 

Emma  doubted  the  truth  of  this  sentiment.  She 
had  a  great  idea  that  people  who  had  extensive  grounds 
themselves  cared  very  little  for  the  extensive  grounds  of 
anybody  else ;  but  it  was  not  worth  while  to  attack  an 
error  so  double-dyed,  and  therefore  only  said  in  reply  — 

"When  you  have  seen  more  of  this  country  I  am 
afraid  you  will  think  you  have  overrated  Hartfield. 
Surry  is  full  of  beauties." 

11  Oh !  yes,  I  am  quite  aware  of  that.  It  is  the 
garden  of  England,  you  know.  Surry  is  the  garden  of 
England." 

279 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

"  Yes ;  but  we  must  not  rest  our  claims  on  that  dis- 
tinction. Many  counties,  I  believe,  are  called  the 
garden  of  England,  as  well  as  Surry." 

"  No,  I  fancy  not,"  replied  Mrs.  Elton,  with  a  most 
satisfied  smile.  "  I  never  heard  any  county  but  Surry 
called  so." 

Emma  was  silenced. 

"My  brother  and  sister  have  promised  us  a  visit  in 
the  spring,  or  summer  at  farthest,"  continued  Mrs. 
Elton;  "and  that  will  be  our  time  for  exploring. 
While  they  are  with  us  we  shall  explore  a  great  deal,  I 
dare  say.  They  will  have  their  barouche-landau,  of 
course,  which  holds  four  perfectly ;  and  therefore,  with- 
out saying  anything  of  our  carriage,  we  should  be  able 
to  explore  the  different  beauties  extremely  well.  They 
would  hardly  come  in  their  chaise,  I  think,  at  that 
season  of  the  year.  Indeed,  when  the  time  draws  on, 
I  shall  decidedly  recommend  their  bringing  the  barouche- 
landau  ;  it  will  be  so  very  much  preferable.  When 
people  come  into  a  beautiful  country  of  this  sort,  you 
know,  Miss  Woodhouse,  one  naturally  wishes  them  to 
see  as  much  as  possible ;  and  Mr.  Suckling  is  extremely 
fond  of  exploring.  We  explored  to  KingVWeston 
twice  last  summer,  in  that  way,  most  delightfully,  just 
after  their  first  having  the  barouche-landau.  You  have 
many  parties  of  that  kind  here,  I  suppose,  Miss 
Woodhouse,  every  summer  ?  " 

"  No ;  not  immediately  here.  We  are  rather  out  of 
distance  of  the  very  striking  beauties  which  attract  the 
sort  of  parties  you  speak  of;  and  we  are  a  very  quiet 
set  of  people,  I  believe ;  more  disposed  to  stay  at  home 
than  engage  in  schemes  of  pleasure." 

"  Ah !  there  is  nothing  like  staying  at  home  for  real 
comfort.  Nobody  can  be  more  devoted  to  home  than 
280 


Characters 

I  am.  I  was  quite  a  proverb  for  it  at  Maple  Grove. 
Many  a  time  has  Selina  said,  when  she  has  been  going 
to  Bristol,  '  I  really  cannot  get  this  girl  to  move  from 
the  house.  I  absolutely  must  go  in  by  myself,  though 
I  hate  being  stuck  up  in  the  barouche-landau  without  a 
companion :  but  Augusta,  I  believe,  with  her  own  good 
will,  would  never  stir  beyond  the  park  paling.'  Many 
a  time  has  she  said  so ;  and  yet  I  am  no  advocate  for 
entire  seclusion.  I  think,  on  the  contrary,  when  people 
shut  themselves  up  entirely  from  society,  it  is  a  very  bad 
thing ;  and  that  it  is  much  more  advisable  to  mix  in  the 
world  in  a  proper  degree,  without  living  in  it  either  too 
much  or  too  little.  I  perfectly  understand  your  situa- 
tion, however,  Miss  Woodhouse "  (looking  towards  Mr. 
Woodhouse),  "  your  father's  state  of  health  must  be  a 
great  drawback.  Why  does  not  he  try  Bath?  —  Indeed 
he  should.  Let  me  recommend  Bath  to  you.  I  assure 
you  I  have  no  doubt  of  its  doing  Mr.  Woodhouse 
good." 

"My  father  tried  it  more  than  once,  formerly,  but 
without  receiving  any  benefit ;  and  Mr.  Perry,  whose 
name,  I  dare  say,  is  not  unknown  to  you,  does  not 
conceive  it  would  be  at  all  more  likely  to  be  useful  now." 

"  Ah !  that's  a  great  pity ;  for  I  assure  you,  Miss 
Woodhouse,  where  the  waters  do  agree,  it  is  quite 
wonderful  the  relief  they  give.  In  my  Bath  life  I  have 
seen  such  instances  of  it!  And  it  is  so  cheerful  a  place 
that  it  could  not  fail  of  being  of  use  to  Mr.  Woodhouse's 
spirits,  which,  I  understand,  are  sometimes  much  de- 
pressed. And  as  to  its  recommendations  to  you,  I  fancy 
I  need  not  take  much  pains  to  dwell  on  them.  The 
advantages  of  Bath  to  the  young  are  pretty  generally 
understood.  It  would  be  a  charming  introduction  for 
you,  who  have  lived  so  secluded  a  life:  and  I  could 
281 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

immediately  secure  you  some  of  the  best  society  in  the 
place.  A  line  from  me  would  bring  you  a  little  host  of 
acquaintance;  and  my  particular  friend  Mrs.  Partridge, 
the  lady  I  have  always  resided  with  when  in  Bath, 
would  be  most  happy  to  show  you  any  attentions, 
and  would  be  the  very  person  for  you  to  go  into  public 
with."  .  .  . 

"  I  do  not  ask  whether  you  are  musical,  Mrs.  Elton. 
Upon  these  occasions  a  lady's  character  generally  pre- 
cedes her ;  and  Highbury  has  long  known  that  you  are  a 
superior  performer." 

"Oh!  no,  indeed;  I  must  protest  against  any  such 
idea.  A  superior  performer!  —  very  far  from  it,  I  as- 
sure you :  consider  from  how  partial  a  quarter  your 
information  came.  I  am  doatingly  fond  of  music  — 
passionately  fond ;  and  my  friends  say  I  am  not  entirely 
devoid  of  taste;  but  as  to  anything  else,  upon  my 
honour  my  performance  is  mediocre  to  the  last  degree. 
You,  Miss  Woodhouse,  I  well  know,  play  delightfully.  I 
assure  you  it  has  been  the  greatest  satisfaction,  comfort, 
and  delight  to  me  to  hear  what  a  musical  society  I  am 
got  into.  I  absolutely  cannot  do  without  music ;  it  is 
a  necessary  of  life  to  me ;  and  having  always  been  used 
to  a  very  musical  society,  both  at  Maple  Grove  and  in 
Bath,  it  would  have  been  a  most  serious  sacrifice.  I 
honestly  said  as  much  to  Mr.  E.  when  he  was  speaking 
of  my  future  home,  and  expressing  his  fears  lest  the  re- 
tirement of  it  should  be  disagreeable ;  and  the  inferiority 
of  the  house  too  —  knowing  what  I  had  been  accustomed 
to  —  of  course  he  was  not  wholly  without  apprehension. 
When  he  was  speaking  of  it  in  that  way,  I  honestly 
said  that  the  world  I  could  give  up  —  parties,  balls,  plays 
—  for  I  had  no  fear  of  retirement.  Blessed  with  so 
many  resources  within  myself,  the  world  was  not 
282 


Characters 

necessary  to  me.  I  could  do  very  well  without  it.  To 
those  who  had  no  resources  it  was  a  different  thing ; 
but  my  resources  made  me  quite  independent.  And  as 
to  smaller-sized  rooms  than  I  had  been  used  to,  I  really 
could  not  give  it  a  thought.  I  hoped  I  was  perfectly 
equal  to  any  sacrifice  of  that  description.  Certainly,  I 
had  been  accustomed  to  every  luxury  at  Maple  Grove ; 
but  I  did  assure  him  that  two  carriages  were  not  neces- 
sary to  my  happiness,  nor  were  spacious  apartments. 
'  But,'  said  I,  l  to  be  quite  honest,  I  do  not  think  I  can 
live  without  something  of  a  musical  society.  I  condition 
for  nothing  else ;  but,  without  music,  life  would  be  a  blank 
to  me.'" 

Jane  Austen 

The  Widow  Blacket          ^y      *^y      -c^       -^      -*o> 

HPHE  widow  Blacket,  of  Oxford,  is  the  largest  female  I 
J-  ever  had  the  pleasure  of  beholding.  There  may 
be  her  parallel  upon  the  earth;  but  surely  I  never  saw 
it.  I  take  her  to  be  lineally  descended  from  the  maid's 
aunt  of  Brainford,  who  caused  Master  Ford  such  un- 
easiness. She  hath  Atlantean  shoulders ;  and,  as  she 
stoopeth  in  her  gait, —  with  as  few  offences  to  answer  for 
in  her  own  particular  as  any  one  of  Eve's  daughters,  — 
her  back  seems  broad  enough  to  bear  the  blame  of  all 
the  peccadilloes  that  have  been  committed  since  Adam. 
She  girdeth  her  waist  —  or  what  she  is  pleased  to  esteem 
as  such  —  nearly  up  to  her  shoulders ;  from  beneath 
which  that  huge  dorsal  expanse,  in  mountainous 
declivity,  emergeth.  Respect  for  her  alone  preventeth 
the  idle  boys,  who  follow  her  about  in  shoals,  whenever 
she  cometh  abroad,  from  getting  up  and  riding.  But 
her  presence  infallibly  commands  a  reverence.  She  is 
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indeed,  as  the  Americans  would  express  it,  something 
awful.  Her  person  is  a  burthen  to  herself  no  less  than 
to  the  ground  which  bears  her.  To  her  mighty  bone, 
she  had  a  pinguitude  withal,  which  makes  the  depth  of 
winter  to  her  the  most  desirable  season.  Her  distress 
in  the  warmer  solstice  is  pitiable.  During  the  months 
of  July  and  August,  she  usually  renteth  a  cool  cellar, 
where  ices  are  kept,  whereinto  she  descendeth  when 
Sirius  rageth.  She  dates  from  a  hot  Thursday,  —  some 
twenty-five  years  ago.  Her  apartment  in  summer  is 
pervious  to  the  four  winds.  Two  doors,  in  north  and 
south  direction,  and  two  windows,  fronting  the  rising 
and  the  setting  sun,  never  closed,  from  every  cardinal 
point  catch  the  contributory  breezes.  She  loves  to 
enjoy  what  she  calls  a  quadruple  draught.  That  must 
be  a  shrewd  zephyr  that  can  escape  her.  I  owe  a  painful 
face-ache,  which  oppresses  me  at  this  moment,  to  a  cold 
caught,  sitting  by  her,  one  day  in  last  July,  at  this  receipt 
of  coolness.  Her  fan,  in  ordinary,  resembleth  a  banner 
spread,  which  she  keepeth  continually  on  the  alert  to 
detect  the  least  breeze.  She  possesseth  an  active  and 
gadding  mind,  totally  incommensurate  with  her  person. 
No  one  delighteth  more  than  herself  in  country  exercises 
and  pastimes.  .  .  .  Within-doors,  her  principal  diversion 
is  music,  vocal  and  instrumental ;  in  both  which  she  is  no 
mean  professor.  Her  voice  is  wonderfully  fine ;  but  till 
I  got  used  to  it,  I  confess  it  staggered  me.  It  is,  for  all 
the  world,  like  that  of  a  piping  bulfinch ;  while,  from 
her  size  and  stature,  you  .would  expect  notes  to  drown 
the  deep  organ.  The  shake,  which  most  fine  singers 
reserve  for  the  close  or  cadence,  by  some  unaccountable 
flexibility,  or  tremulousness  of  pipe,  she  carrieth  quite 
through  the  composition ;  so  that  her  time,  to  a  common 
air  or  ballad,  keeps  double  motion,  like  the  earth, — 
284 


Characters 

running  the  primary  circuit  of  the  tune,  and  still  revol- 
ving upon  its  own  axis.  The  effect,  as  I  said  before,  when 
you  are  used  to  it,  is  as  agreeable  as  it  is  altogether  new 
and  surprising.  The  spacious  apartment  of  her  outward 
frame  lodgeth  a  soul  in  all  respects  disproportionate.  Of 
more  than  moral  make,  she  evinceth  withal  a  trembling 
sensibility,  a  yielding  infirmity  of  purpose,  a  quick  sus- 
ceptibility to  reproach,  and  all  the  train  of  diffident  and 
blushing  virtues,  which  for  their  habitation  usually  seek 
out  a  feeble  frame,  an  attenuated  and  meagre  constitution. 
With  more  than  man's  bulk,  her  humours  and  occupations 
are  eminently  feminine.  She  sighs,  —  being  six  feet  high. 
She  languisheth,  —  being  two  feet  wide.  She  worketh 
slender  sprigs  upon  the  delicate  muslin,  —  her  fingers 
being  capable  of  moulding  a  Colossus.  She  sippeth 
her  wine  out  of  her  glass  daintily  —  her  capacity  being 
that  of  a  tun  of  Heidelberg.  She  goeth  mincingly  with 
those  feet  of  hers,  whose  solidity  need  not  fear  the  black 
ox's  pressure.  Softest  and  largest  of  thy  sex,  adieu  !  By 
what  parting  attribute  may  I  salute  thee,  last  and  best 
of  the  Titanesses,  —  Ogress,  fed  with  milk  instead  of 
blood  ;  not  least,  or  least  handsome,  among  Oxford's 
stately  structures,  —  Oxford,  who,  in  its  deadest  time  of 
vacation,  can  never  properly  be  said  to  be  empty,  having 
thee  to  fill  it. 

Charles  Lamb 

Miss  Anne         ^>       <^,       ^v       ^y       -o       -^ 


WHEN  I  was  a  little  fellow  no  higher  than  a  hurdle, 
I  was  sent  to  a  farm  to  get  well. 
It  was  a  barren  wasteful  farm  dose  to  the  sea, 
So  near,  that  on  rough  nights  the  waves  kept  me  awake. 
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I  used  to  hear  them  snarling  and  roaring,  and  scrunching 

the  pebbles. 
While  the  wind  beat  at  the  window,  and  knocked  at  the 

door,  and  rushed  down  the  chimney  to  look  for  little 

boys. 

And  the  waves  grew  hungrier  and  hungrier, 
Until  it  seemed  that  they  were  running  along  the  sandy 

road,  and   in   a  minute  we  should  all  be  swallowed 

up. 

But  in  the  morning  everything  was  just  the  same, 
Because,  as  I  was  glad  to  think,  the  kind  beach  had  kept 

the  water  back. 

II 

All   round     the    farm    were    wind-blown    trees    leaning 

piteously  to  the  north  : 
Before    the    house    was    a   low   grey    wall    ragged    with 

ferns, 

And  harfs-tongues  grew  in  every  ditch. 
The  fields  were  flat  for  miles  and  miles,  but  over  there,  far 

over  there,  was  a  high  hill, 
And  its  top,  I  thought,  touched  the  sky. 


I  was  very  happy  at  the  farm  — 

Hunting  for  hens'  eggs  in  fir-wood  ; 

Poking  the  pigs  to  make  them  grunt ; 

Sitting  astride  the  broad  backs  of  the  cart-horses ; 

Watching  Peter  milk  Bright-eye  and  Pansy  in  the  warm 

cow-house ; 

Waiting  to  see  herons  in  the  brooks ; 
Picking  windfalls  from  the  long,  wet  grass  of  the  orchard  ; 
Shooting  at  blackbirds  with  my  bow  and  arrow ; 
Staring  with  childhood's  wondering  gaze  at  Miss  Anne. 
286 


Characters 


rv 

Poor  Miss  Anne! 
I  can  see  her  now,  with  her  sagging  drab  dress  trailing  in 

the  dust, 

And  the  time-worn  shawl  over  her  fat  shoulders, 
And  her  thick  waist,  and  her  grey  hair  — 
Carelessly  knotted,  so  that  stray  always  floated  behind  her. 
And  her  pale  wandering  eyes,  unlit  by  the  light  of  reason. 

v 
Miss  Anne  was  the  soul  of  gentleness,  yet  somehow  I  was 

afraid  of  her. 

Often  she  would  stop  when  she  saw  me,  and  smile  wist- 
fully and  very  sweetly, 
And  put  out  her  hand  to  take  mine, 
But  I  used  always  to  run  away. 

I  wish  now  —  when  it  is  too  late  —  that  I  had  done  her  that 
small  kindness. 


No  one  took  any  notice  of  Miss  Anne,  only  the  animals, 
who  loved  her,  and,  I  think,  understood  her. 

She  drifted  about  the  house  —  slowly,  silently,  shrinkingly. 

Sometimes  we  would  see  her  grey  head  at  the  little  attic 
window : 

Sometimes  her  round  figure  would  fill  the  kitchen  door- 
way (like  a  full-length  by  a  Dutchman)  ; 

Sometimes  she  stooped  among  the  poultry  and  reproved 
their  greed. 

VII 

But  if  any  one  should  want  Miss  Anne,  there  was  one 

sure  spot : 
Between  the  house  and  the  orchard  was  a  careless 

garden  — 

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Rosemary  grew  there,  and  Sweet-William,  and  Love-lies- 

a-bleeding ; 

The  paths  are  between  evening  primroses  and  hollyhocks  ; 
The  beds  were  gay  with  gilly-flowers  and  thrift. 
In   one   corner  the  air  was    heavy    with    the    scent    of 

lavender ; 

And  by  the  water-butt  were  fragrant  herbs. 
At  the  end,  where  wall-flowers  blazed  in  the  mossy  mortar, 

there  was  a  well, 

And  here  Miss  Anne  would  sit  hour  after  hour, 
Here  would  she  sit,  in  rain  and  shine,  till  her  sister,  the 

farmer's  wife,  led  her  away. 


VIII 

Poor  Miss  Anne! 

Thus  passed  her  inarticulate  days  as  she  moved  through 

an  atmosphere  of  negligence,  knowing  no  human  love. 
To-day,  maybe,  her  joyless  pilgrimage  is  nearly  over, 
And  she  is  bent  and  withered  and  white, 
And  her  pale  blue  eyes  are  dim.  .  .  . 
But  my  Miss  Anne  can  never  grow  old,  never  die,  for  I 

have  her  here  in  my  heart  :  f 
An   immortal,  sorrowful   virgin,   with   grey    head    and   a 

plaintive  smile,  and  timid,  out-stretched  hand. 
Poor  starved  soul  ! 


But  when  I  think  of  Miss  Anne  now  (and  often  I  do),  it 

is  as  I  saw  her  on  one  misty  morning. 
It   was   low   tide,   and   I    went   down   to    the    beach    to 

paddle, 

And  there  I  found  Miss  Anne. 
288 


Characters 

She  was  standing  motionless  on  a  little  rock  three  stones1 

throw  from  the  shore. 
The    yellow  water   was     at  her  feet,    and    through    the 

softening  haze  she  looked  majestic  as  Aphrodite. 
A  dozen  seagulls  wheeled  about    her  head,   and  dunlins 

wept  along  the  sand. 
And  there  Miss  Anne  stood,  of  human  beings  the  most 

solitary,  gazing,  gazing  out  to  sea,  searching,  maybe, 

for  that   tenderness   and  understanding  we   denied 

her. 


I  believe  that  she  was  truly  happy  at  that  moment, 

I  believe  that  Nature  seemed  to  love  her  then : 

For  the  gentle  air  kissed  her  head,  and  the  murmuring 

wavelets  kissed  her  feet,  and  the  sea-mist  wrapt  her 

in  sympathy. 

E.  V.  L. 

Meg  Merrilees    *o       ^>       ^>       -Q*       •<o       <^* 

OLD  Meg  she  was  a  gipsy, 
And  liv'd  upon  the  moors  ; 
Her  bed  it  was  the  brown  heath  turf, 
And  her  house  was  out  of  doors. 

Her  apples  were  swart  blackberries, 

Her  currants  pods  o'  broom  ; 
Her  wine  was  dew  of  the  wild  white  rose, 

Her  book  a  churchyard  tomb. 

Her  brothers  were  the  craggy  hills, 

Her  sisters  larchen  trees  — 
Alone  with  her  great  family 

She  liv'd  as  she  did  please, 
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No  breakfast  had  she  many  a  morn. 

No  dinner  many  a  noon ; 
And  'stead  of  supper  she  would  stare 

Full  hard  against  the  moon. 

But  every  morn  of  woodbine  fresh 

She  made  her  garlanding, 
And  every  night  the  dark  glen  yew 

She  wove  and  she  would  sing. 

And  with  her  fingers  old  and  brown 

She  plaited  mats  o'  rushes, 
And  gave  them  to  the  cottagers 

She  met  among  the  bushes. 

Old  Meg  was  brave  as  Margaret  Queen 

And  tall  as  Amazon. 
An  old  red  blanket  coat  she  wore  ; 

A  chip  hat  had  she  on. 
God  rest  her  aged  bones  somewhere, 

She  died  full  long  agone ! 

John  Keats 


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XXV 

FRIENDS    OF   THE   COURTLY 

The  Queen  of  James  i.  of  Scotland     ^^       *o       ^ 

OF  her  array  the  form  if  I  should  write, 
To  wit  her  golden  hair  and  rich  attire 
In  fretwise  trimmed  and  set  with  pearls  so  white 
And  balas  rubies  sparkling  as  the  fire, 
With  many  an  emerald  and  fair  sapphire ; 
And  on  her  head  a  chaplet  fresh  of  hue, 
Of  Plumes  part  coloured  red.  and  white,  and  blue  ; 

And  full  of  quiv'ring  spangles  bright  as  gold, 
Fashioned  in  shape  like  to  the  amore'tts, 

So  new,  so  fresh,  so  pleasant  to  behold, 
The  plumes  eke  like  unto  the  flow'r-jone'tts, 
Others  were  shaped  like  to  the  round  croke"tts, 

Besides  all  this,  there  was,  as  well  I  wot, 

Beauty  enough  to  make  a  world  to  dote. 

About  her  neck,  white  as  the  fire  amaille, 
A  goodly  chain  of  small  orfevery, 

Whereat  there  hung  a  ruby,  without  fail, 
Like  to  a  heart  it  shaped  was  verily, 
That,  as  a  spark  of  flame,  so  wantonly 

Seemed  burning  bright  upon  her  snowy  throat ; 

A  partner  good  she'd  make,  full  well  I  wot ! 
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In  her  was  beauty,  youth,  and  humble  port, 
And  bounty,  riches,  womanly  facture, 

God  better  wot  than  pen  of  mine  report : 
Wisdom,  largess,  estate,  discretion  sure 
In  ev'ry  point  so  guided  her  mesure, 

In  word,  in  deed,  in  shape,  in  contenance, 

That  nature  could  no  more  her  child  advance. 

James  I.  of  Scotland 

The  Queen  of  Bohemia  <^y       *o       -o       *c 

YOU  meaner  beauties  of  the  night, 
That  poorly  satisfy  our  eyes 
More  by  your  umber  than  your  light ; 
You  common  people  of  the  skies, 
What  are  you  when  the  morn  shall  rise? 

You  curious  chanters  of  the  wood, 
That  warble  forth  Dame  Nature's  lays, 
Thinking  your  passions  understood. 
By  your  weak  accents  ;  what's  your  praise, 
When  Philomel  her  voice  should  raise? 

You  violets  that  first  appear, 
By  your  pure  purple  mantles  known 
Like  the  proud  virgins  of  the  year, 
As  if  the  spring  were  all  your  own ; 
What  are  you  when  the  rose  is  blown  ? 

So,  when  my  mistress  shall  be  seen 
In  form  and  beauty  of  her  mind, 
By  virtue  first,  then  choice  a  queen, 
Tell  me  if  she  were  not  designed 
The  eclipse  and  glory  of  her  kind  ? 

Sir  Henry  Wotton 
292 


Friends  of  the  Courtly 


Lady  Jane  Maitland     <i-        "v^       -Qy        *cy        - 

LIKE  to  the  garden's  eye,  the  flower  of  flow'r's 
With  purple  pomp  that  dazzle  doth  the  sight, 
Or  as  among  the  lesser  gems  of  night, 
The  usher  of  the  planet  of  the  hours, 
Sweet  maid,  thou  shined'st  on  this  world  of  ours, 
Of  all  perfections  having  trac'd  the  height : 
Thine  outward  frame  was  fair,  fair  inward  powers, 
A  sapphire  lanthorn,  and  an  incense  light. 
Hence,  the  enamour'd  heaven,  as  too,  too  good 
On  earth's  all-thorny  soil  long  to  abide, 
Transplanted  to  their  fields  so  rare  a  bud, 
Wherefrom  thy  sun  no  cloud  thee  now  can  hide. 
Earth  moan'd  her  loss,  and  wished  she  had  the  grace 
Not  to  have  known,  or  known  thee  longer  space. 

William  Drummond  of  Hawthornden 


Lucy,  Countess  of  Bedford      "Cy       xc>        *o        *^ 

LUCY,  you  brightnesse  of  our  spheare,  who  are 
Life  of  the  Muses'  day,  their  morning  starre! 
If  works  (not  th'  author's)  their  own  grace  should  look, 
Whose  poemes  would  not  wish  to  be  your  book  ? 
But  these,  desir'd  by  you,  the  maker's  ends 
Crown  with  their  own :  rare  poems  aske  rare  friends. 
Yet  satires,  since  the  most  of  mankind  be 
Their  un-avoided  subjects,  fewest  see : 
For  none  e'er  tooke  that  pleasure  in  sin's  sense, 
But,  when  they  heard  it  tax'd,  took  more  offence. 
They,  then,  that  living  where  the  matter's  bred, 
Dare  for  these  poems  yet  both  aske  and  read, 
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And  like  them  too ;  must  needfully,  though  few, 
Be  of  the  best ;  and  'mongst  those  best  are  you  ; 
Lucy,  you  brightnesse  of  our  spheare,  who  are 
The  Muses'  evening,  as  their  morning-starre ! 

Ben  Jonson 

The  Countess  of  Anglesea        ^>       ^>       ^>       ^> 

O  WHITHER  do  you  lead  the  fair 
And  spicy  daughter  of  the  morn  ? 
Those  manacles  of  her  soft  hair, 
Princes,  though  free,  would  fain  have  worn. 

What  is  her  crime?  what  hath  she  done? 
Did  she,  by  breaking  beauty,  stay, 
Or  from  his  course  mislead  the  sun, 
So  robbed  your  harvest  of  a  day  ? 

Or  did  her  voice,  divinely  clear, 
(Since  lately  in  your  forest  bred) 
Make  all  the  trees  dance  after  her, 
And  so  your  woods  disforested? 

Run,  run!  pursue  this  Gothic  rout, 
Who  rudely  love  in  bondage  keep : 
Sure  all  old  lovers  have  the  gout, 
The  young  are  overwatched  and  sleep ! 

Sir  William  Davenant 

Mary,  Lady  Wroth         o       xc>       *o       ^>       x^ 

MADAME,  had  all  antiquitie  been  lost, 
All  history  seal'd  up,  and  fables  crost 
That  we  had  left  us,  nor  by  time,  nor  place, 
Least  mention  of  a  Nymph,  a  Muse,  a  Grace, 
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Friends  of  the  Courtly 

But  even  their  names  were  to  be  made  anew,  — 
Who  could  not  but  create  them  all  from  you  ? 
He,  that  but  saw  you  wear  the  wheaten  hat, 
Would  call  you  more  than  Ceres,  if  not  that : 
And,  drest  in  shepherd's  tire,  who  would  not  say 
You  were  the  bright  CEnone,  Flora,  May? 
If  dancing,  all  would  cry  the  Idalian  Queen 
Were  leading  forth  the  Graces  on  the  greene. 
And,  armed  to  the  chase,  go  bare  her  bow, 
Diana  alone  so  hit,  and  hunted  so. 
There's  none  so  dull,  that  for  your  style  would  aske, 
That  saw  you  put  on  Pallas1  plumed  caske : 
Or,  keeping  your  due  state,  that  would  not  cry, 
There  Juno  sate,  and  yet  no  peacock  by. 
So  are  you  Nature's  index,  and  restore, 
In  your  selfe,  all  treasure  lost  of  th1  age  before. 

Ben  Jonson 


Lady 


THE  harmony  of  colours,  features,  grace, 
Resulting  airs  (the  magic  of  a  face) 
Of  musical  sweet  tunes,  all  which  combined 
To  crown  one  sovereign  beauty,  lie  confinM 
To  thy  dark  vault :  she  was  a  cabinet 
Where  all  the  choicest  stones  of  price  were  set ; 
Whose  native  colour  and  pure  lustre  lent 
Her  eye,  cheek,  lip,  a  dazzling  ornament ; 
Whose  rare  and  hidden  virtues  did  express 
Her  inward  beauties  and  mind's  fairer  dress ; 
The  constant  diamond,  the  wise  chrysolite, 
The  devout  sapphire,  em'rald  apt  to  write 
Records  of  mem'ry,  cheerful  agate,  grave 
And  serious  onyx,  topaz  that  doth  save 
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The  brain's  calm  temper,  witty  amethyst ; 
This  precious  quarry,  or  what  else  the  list 
On  Aaron's  ephod  planted  had,  she  wore ; 
One  only  pearl  was  wanting  to  her  store : 
Which  in  her  Saviour's  book  she  found  exprest ; 
To  purchase  that,  she  sold  Death  all  the  rest. 

Thomas  Carew 


The  Lady  Elizabeth  Hastings 


TV/TETHINKS,  I  now  see  her  walking  in  her  garden 
•*•»-••  like  our  first  parent,  with  unaffected  charms, 
before  beauty  had  spectators,  and  bearing  celestial  con- 
scious virtue  in  her  aspect.  Her  countenance  is  the 
lively  picture  of  her  mind,  which  is  the  seat  of  honour, 
truth,  compassion,  knowledge,  and  innocence. 

There  dwells  the  scorn  of  vice,  and  pity  too.  In  the 
midst  of  the  most  ample  fortune,  and  veneration  of  all 
that  behold  and  know  her,  without  the  least  affectation 
she  consults  retirement,  the  contemplation  of  her  own 
being,  and  that  Supreme  Power  which  bestowed  it. 
Without  the  learning  of  schools,  or  knowledge  of  a  long 
course  of  arguments,  she  goes  on  in  a  steady  course  of 
uninterrupted  piety  and  virtue,  and  adds  to  the  severity 
and  privacy  of  the  last  age  all  the  freedom  and  ease  of 
this.  The  language  and  mien  of  a  court  she  is  possessed 
of  in  the  highest  degree ;  but  the  simplicity  and  humble 
thoughts  of  a  cottage  are  her  more  welcome  entertain- 
ments. Aspasia  is  a  female  philosopher,  who  does  not 
only  live  up  to  the  resignation  of  the  most  retired  lives  of 
the  ancient  sages,  but  also  to  the  schemes  and  plans 
which  they  thought  beautiful,  though  inimitable.  This 
296 


Friends  of  the  Courtly 

lady  is  the  most  exact  economist,  without  appearing 
busy ;  the  most  strictly  virtuous  without  tasting  the  praise 
of  it ;  and  shuns  applause  with  as  much  industry  as 
others  do  reproach.  This  character  is  so  particular,  that 
it  will  very  easily  be  fixed  on  her  only  by  all  that  know 
her;  but  I  dare  say,  she  will  be  the  last  that  finds 
it  out. 

William  Congreve 


T° 


II 

know  her  was  a  liberal  education. 

Richard  Steele 


How  am  I  like  Her?     *o       <^y 

"  You  are  very  like  her." 


Miss  H.  E. 


"  Resemblances  begin  to  strike 
In  things  exceedingly  unlike." 

MS.  Poem 

HOW  am  I  like  her?  —  for  no  trace 
Of  pain,  of  passion,  or  of  aught 
That  stings  or  stains,  is  on  her  face  : 
Mild  eyes,  clear  forehead,  —  ne'er  was  wrought 
A  fitter,  fairer  dwelling-place 
For  tranquil  joy  and  holy  thought. 

How  am  I  like  her?  —  for  the  fawn 
Not  lighter  bounds  o'er  rock  and  rill 
Than  she,  beneath  the  intruding  dawn 
Threading,  all  mirth,  our  gay  quadrille  ; 
Or  tripping  o'er  our  level  lawn 
To  those  she  loves  upon  the  hill. 
297 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

How  am  I  like  her?  —  for  the  ear 
Thrills  with  her  voice.     Its  breezy  tone 
Goes  forth,  as  eloquently  clear 
As  are  the  lutes  at  Heaven's  high  throne  ; 
And  makes  the  hearts  of  those  who  hear 
As  pure  and  peaceful  as  her  own. 

How  am  I  like  her?  —  for  her  ways 
Are  full  of  bliss  —  she  never  knew 
Stern  avarice,  nor  the  thirst  of  praise 
Insatiable  :  —  Love  never  threw 
Upon  her  calm  and  sunny  days 
The  venom  of  his  deadly  dew. 

How  am  I  like  her?  —  for  her  arts 
Are  blessing —  Sorrow  owns  her  thrall ; 
She  dries  the  tear-drop  as  it  starts, 
And  checks  the  murmurs  as  they  fall ; 
She  is  the  day-star  of  our  hearts, 
Consoling,  guiding,  gladdening  all. 

How  am  I  like  her?  —  for  she  steals 
All  sympathies  —  glad  childhood's  play 
Is  left  for  her ;  and  mild  youth  kneels 
Obedient  to  her  gentle  sway  ; 
And  aye  beholds  her  smile,  and  feels 
December  brightening  into  May. 

How  am  I  like  her?  —  The  rude  fir 
Is  little  like  the  sweet  rose-tree  :  — 
Unless,  perchance,  fair  flatterer, 
In  this  your  fabled  likeness  be,  — 
That  all  who  are  most  dear  to  her 
Are  apt  to  be  most  dear  to  me. 

Winthrop  M.  Praed 
298 


Friends  of  the  Courtly 

Mrs.  Biddy  Floyd         ^>       -o       ^>       <ix       < 
(u  The  Receipt  to  form  a  Beauty  ") 

WHEN  Cupid  did  his  grandsire  Jove  entreat 
To  form  some  Beauty  by  a  new  receipt, 
Jove  sent,  and  found,  far  in  a  country  scene, 
Truth,  innocence,  good  nature,  look  serene : 
From  which  ingredients  first  the  dext'rous  boy 
Pick'd  the  demure,  the  awkward,  and  the  coy. 
The  Graces  from  the  Court  did  next  provide 
Breeding,  and  wit,  and  air,  and  decent  pride : 
These  Venus  cleans  from  every  spurious  grain 
Of  nice  coquet,  affected,  pert,  and  vain. 
Jove  mix'd  up  all,  and  the  best  clay  employ'd  ; 
Then  call'd  the  happy  composition  FLOYD. 

Dean  Swift 


Belinda 


BELINDA  smil'd,  and  all  the  world  was  gay. 
A.  Pope 


299 


XXVI 

SAINTS 

The  Virgin  Mary  ^^       ^>       -v>       *^x       ^^> 

I 

r~pHERE  was  a  thief  that  often  stole,  but  he  had 
-«-  always  great  devotion  to  the  Virgin  Mary,  and 
saluted  her  oft.  It  was  so  that  on  a  time  he  was  taken 
and  judged  to  be  hanged.  And  when  he  was  hanged 
the  Blessed  Virgin  sustained  and  hanged  him  up  with 
her  hands  three  days  that  he  died  not  ne  had  no  hurt, 
and  they  that  hanged  him  passed  by  adventure  thereby, 
and  found  him  living  and  of  glad  cheer. 

And  then  they  supposed  that  the  cord  had  not  been 
well  strained,  and  would  have  slain  him  with  a  sword, 
or  have  cut  his  throat,  but  our  Blessed  Lady  set  on  her 
hand  tofore  the  strokes,  so  that  they  might  not  slay  him 
ne  grieve  him ;  and  then  knew  they  by  that  he  told  to 
them  that  the  Blessed  Mother  of  God  helped  him,  and 
then  they  marvelled,  and  took  him  off  and  let  him  go,  in 
the  honour  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  and  then  he  went  and 
entered  into  a  monastery,  and  was  in  the  service  of  the 
Mother  of  God  as  long  as  he  lived. 
300 


Saints 
II 

/~T*HERE  was  a  priest  of  a  parish,  which  was  of  honest 
•*-  and  good  life,  and  could  say  no  mass  but  mass  of  our 
Lady,  the  which  he  sang  devoutly  in  the  honour  of  her, 
wherefore  he  was  accused  to  face  the  bishop,  and  was 
anon  called  tofore  him.  And  the  priest  confessed  that 
he  could  say  none  other  mass,  wherefore  the  bishop 
reproved  him  sore  as  uncommon  and  an  idiot,  and 
suspended  him  of  his  mass,  that  he  should  no  more  sing 
none  from  thenforthon.  And  then  our  Blessed  Lady 
appeared  to  the  bishop  and  blamed  him  much  because 
he  had  so  entreated  her  chaplain,  and  said  to  him  that 
he  should  die  within  thirty  days,  if  he  re-established  him 
not  again  to  this  office  accustomed.  Then  the  bishop 
was  afeared,  and  sent  for  the  priest  and  prayed  him  of 
forgiveness,  and  bade  him  that  he  should  not  sing  but  of 
our  Lady. 

Ill 

THERE  was  a  clerk  which  was  vain  and  riotous,  but 
always  he  loved  much  our  Lady,  the  Mother  of  God. 
and  said  every  day  his  hours.  And  he  saw  on  a  night  a 
vision  that,  he  was  in  judgment  tofore  our  Lord,  and  our 
Lord  said  to  them  that  were  there  :  What  judgment  shall 
we  do  of  this  clerk?  devise  ye  it  for  I  have  long  suffered 
him,  and  see  no  sign  yet  of  amendment.  Then  our 
Lord  gave  him  sentence  of  damnation,  and  all  they 
approved  it.  Then  arose  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  said 
to  her  son :  I  pray  thee,  debonair  son,  of  thy  mercy  for 
this  man,  so  that  thou  assuage  upon  him  the  sentence  of 
damnation,  and  that  he  may  live  yet,  by  the  grace  of  me, 
which  is  condemned  to  death  by  his  merits."  And  our 
Lord  said  to  her:  "I  deliver  him  at  thy  request,  for  to 
know  if  I  shall  see  his  correction."  Then  our  Lady  turned 
301 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 


her  toward  him  and  said :  "  Go,  and  sin  no  more  lest 
it  happen  worse  to  thee."  Then  he  awoke,  and  changed 
his  life,  and  entered  into  religion,  and  finished  his  life  in 
good  works. 

William  Caxton 

Saint  Edgburgh          -^        o        *^x        <^        <^y 

IT  is  reported  of  her  (forgive  me,  Reader,  though  I 
would  not  write  these  things  they  are  so  absurd,  I 
cannot  but  write  them  they  are  so  absurd)  that  she  would 
by  night  play  the  part  of  a  Pious  Thief,  and  steal  the 
socks  of  all  the  other  Nuns,  and,  having  carefully  washed 
and  anointed  them,  restore  them  to  their  beds  sides. 

Thomas  Fuller 

Saint  Zita        "cy        <^v        *^x        *o        *^y        *o 

ZFOR  SAINT  ZITA,  the  good  kitchen-maid ; 
She  prayed,  and  she  prayed,  and   she   prayed,  and 

she  prayed ; 

One  morning  she  got  so  absorbed  in  her  prayers, 
She  simply  neglected  her  household  affairs. 
Too  late  she  remembered  'twas  bread  making  day, 
And  she  trembled  to  think  what  her  mistress  would  say. 
She  flew  to  the  oven,  looked  in  it,  and  cried, 
"  Glory  be  to  the  LORD  !  the  bread's  ready  inside ! " 
The  Angels  had  kneaded  it,  raised  it  with  yeast, 
Made  the  fire,  put  the  pans  in  the  oven  —  at  least 
I  can  only  suppose  that  was  how  it  was  done, 
For  the  bread  was  all  baked  by  a  quarter  to  one. 
To  pray  like  Saint  Zita,  but  not  to  be  late, 
Is  the  way  to  be  good,  and  (if  possible)  great. 

Reginald  Balfour 
302 


Saints 
Saint  Cecilia       ^>       -o       ^>       <^       <^y       ^y 

/~*ECILIA  is  as  much  to  say  as  the  lily  of  heaven,  or  a 
iS"  way  to  blind  men.  Or  she  is  said  of  celo  and  lia, 
or  else  Cecilia,  as  lacking  blindness.  Or  she  is  said  of 
celo,  that  is  heaven,  and  leos,  that  is  people.  She  was  a 
heavenly  lily  by  cleanness  of  virginity,  a  way  to  blind 
men  by  information  of  example,  heaven  by  devout  con- 
templation, lia  by  busy  operation,  lacking  blindness  by 
showing  of  wisdom,  and  heaven  of  the  people. 

For  the  people  beheld  in  her  as  in  following  the 
spiritual  heaven,  the  sun,  the  moon,  and  the  stars,  that 
is  to  say,  shining  of  wisdom,  magnanimity  of  faith,  and 
diversity  of  virtues.  Or  she  is  said  a  lily,  for  she  had 
the  whiteness  of  cleanness,  a  good  conscience,  and  odour 
of  good  fame.  Or  she  is  said  heaven,  for  Isidore  saith 
that  the  philosophers  say  that  heaven  is  moveable,  round 
and  burning.  In  likewise  was  she  moving  by  busy 
operation,  round  by  perseverance,  and  burning  by  fiery 
charity. 

William  Caxton 


Saint  Elizabeth       <^y       <iy      -<^y      <^x      -^       xQy 

ELIZABETH   was    daughter    of  the    noble   King   of 
Hungary,  and  was  of  noble  lineage,  but  she  was 
more  noble  by  her  faith  and  religion  than  by  her  right 
noble  lineage  ;  she  was  right  noble  by  example,  she  shone 
by  miracle,  and  she  was  fair  by  grace   of   holiness,    for 
the  author  of   nature  enhanced  her  in  a  manner  above 
nature,  when    this    holy   maid  was   nourished  in    delices 
royal    she   renounced   all    childishness,    and    set    herself 
all  in  the  service  of  God.     Then  it  appeared  clearly  as 
3°3 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

her  tender  infancy  enforced  in  simpless,  and  began  to 
use  good  customs  from  then  forthon,  and  to  despise  the 
plays  of  the  world,  and  of  vanities,  and  flee  the  prosperities 
of  the  world,  and  always  to  profit  in  the  honour  of  God. 
For  when  she  was  yet  but  five  years  old  she  abode  so 
ententively  in  the  church  for  to  pray,  that  her  fellows  or 
her  chamberers  might  unnethe  bring  her  thence,  and 
when  she  met  any  of  her  chamberers  or  fellows,  that  she 
would  follow  them  toward  the  chapel  as  it  were  for  to 
play,  for  to  have  cause  to  enter  into  the  church.  And 
when  she  was  entered,  anon  she  kneeled  down  and  lay 
down  to  the  earth,  howbeit  that  she  knew  not  yet  any 
letters ;  and  she  opened  oft  the  psalter  tofore  her  in  the 
church  for  to  feign  that  she  read,  because  she  should  not 
be  let,  and  that  she  should  be  seen  occupied. 

And  when  she  was  with  other  maidens  for  to  play,  she 
considered  well  the  manner  of  the  game  for  to  give 
always  honour  to  God  under  occasion,  and  in  play  of 
rings  and  other  games  she  set  all  her  hope  in  God. 
And  of  all  that  she  won  and  had  of  any  part  profit  when 
she  was  a  young  maid,  she  gave  the  tenth  to  the 
poor  maidens,  and  led  them  ofttimes  with  her  for  to  say 
paternoster  or  for  to  salute  our  Lady.  And  like  as  she 
grew  in  age  by  time  so  grew  she  by  devotion,  for  she  choose 
the  Blessed  Virgin  to  be  her  Lady  and  her  Advocate,  and 
S.  John  the  Evangelist  to  be  warden  of  her  Virginity.  .  .  . 

She  went  not  gladly  to  Karols,  but  withdrew  other 
maidens  from  them.  She  doubted  alway  to  wear  jolly 
clothing,  but  she  used  always  to  have  them  honest. 
She  had  ordained  to  say  every  day  a  certain  number  of 
orisons  and  prayers,  and  if  she  were  occupied  in  any 
manner  that  she  might  not  perform  them,  but  that  she 
was  constrained  of  her  chamberers  to  go  to  her  bed,  she 
would  there  say  them,  waking. 

304 


Saints 

This  holy  virgin  honoured  all  the  solemn  feasts  of  the 
year  with  so  great  reverence  that  she  would  not  suffer 
her  sleeves  to  be  laced  till  the  solemnity  of  the  mass  was 
accomplished,  and  she  heard  the  office  of  the  mass  with 
so  great  reverence  that  when  the  gospel  was  read  and  the 
Sacrament  was  lifted  up,  she  would  take  off  her  brooches 
of  gold  and  the  adornments  on  her  head,  as  circles  or 
chaplets,  and  lay  them  down.  ... 

She  gave  on  a  time  to  a  poor  woman  a  right  good 
vesture,  and  when,  this  woman  saw  that  she  had  so  noble 
a  gift,  she  had  so  great  joy  that  she  fell  down  as  dead, 
and  when  the  blessed  Elizabeth  saw  that,  she  was  sorry 
that  she  had  given  to  her  so  noble  a  gift,  and  doubted 
that  she  was  the  cause  of  her  death,  and  prayed  for  her, 
and  anon  she  arose  all  whole.  And  she  span  oft  wool 
with  her  chamberer  and  made  thereof  cloth,  so  that  of 
her  proper  labour  that  she  gave  to  the  church,  she 
received  glorious  fruit,  and  gave  good  ensample  unto 
others.  .  .  . 

When  the  time  approached  that  God  had  ordained, 
that  she  which  had  despised  the  reign  mortal  should  have 
the  reign  of  angels,  she  lay  sick  of  the  fever  and  turned 
her  to  the  wall,  and  they  that  were  there  heard  her 
put  out  a  sweet  melody ;  and  when  one  of  the  chamberers 
had  enquired  of  her  what  it  was,  she  answered  and  said : 
A  bird  came  between  me  and  the  wall  and  sang  so 
sweetly  that  it  provoked  me  to  sing  with  it.  She  was 
always  in  her  malady  glad  and  jocund,  and  ne  ceased  of 
prayer.  The  last  day  tofore  her  departing,  she  said  to  her 
chamberers  :  What  will  you  do  if  the  devil  come  to  you  ? 
And  after  a  little  while  she  cried  with  a  high  voice: 
Flee  !  flee !  flee !  like  she  had  chased  away  the  devil ; 
and  after,  she  said:  The  midnight  approacheth  in  which 
Jesu  Christ  was  born ;  it  is  now  time  that  God  calls  his 
x  3°5  ' 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

friends  to  his  heavenly  weddings.  And  this,  the  year 
of  our  Lord  twelve  hundred  and  thirty-one,  she  gave  up 
her  spirit  and  slept  in  our  Lord.  .  .  . 

Then  there  was  heard  and  seen  a  multitude  of  birds, 
so  many  that  there  had  not  been  seen  the  like  tofore,  into 
the  church,  and  began  a  song  of  right  great  melody, 
like  as  it  had  been  the  obsequies  of  her,  and  their  song 
was  Regnum  Mundi,  which  is  sung  in  the  praising  of 
virgins. 

William  Caxton 


306 


XXVII 
IMMORTAL   SISTERS 


Mary  Lamb        "^       <^       "Ciy       -^       'Qy       *o 

BRIDGET  ELIA  has  been  my  housekeeper  for  many 
a  long  year.  I  have  obligations  to  Bridget, 
extending  beyond  the  period  of  memory.  We  house 
together,  old  bachelor  and  maid,  in  a  sort  of  double 
singleness ;  with  such  tolerable  comfort,  upon  the  whole, 
that  I,  for  one,  find  in  myself  no  sort  of  disposition  to 
go  out  upon  the  mountains,  with  the  rash  king's  off- 
spring, to  bewail  my  celibacy.  We  agree  pretty  well  in 
our  tastes  and  habits  —  yet  so,  as  "with  a  difference." 
We  are  generally  in  harmony,  with  occasional  bickerings 
—  as  it  should  be  among  near  relations.  Our  sympathies 
are  rather  understood  than  expressed;  and  once,  upon 
my  dissembling  a  tone  in  my  voice  more  kind  than 
ordinary,  my  cousin  burst  into  tears,  and  complained 
that  I  was  altered.  We  are  both  great  readers  in  dif- 
ferent directions.  While  I  am  hanging  over  (for  the 
thousandth  time)  some  passage  in  old  Burton,  or  one 
of  his  strange  contemporaries,  she  is  abstracted  in  some 
modern  tale  or  adventure,  whereof  our  common  reading- 
table  is  daily  fed  with  assiduously  fresh  supplies. 
Narrative  teases  me.  I  have  little  concern  in  the 
3°7 


The  Ladies'  Pageant 


progress  of  events.  She  must  have  a  story  —  well,  ill, 
or  indifferently  told  —  so  there  be  life  stirring  in  it,  and 
plenty  of  good  or  evil  accidents.  The  fluctuations  of 
fortune  in  fiction — and  almost  in  real  life  —  have  ceased 
to  interest,  or  operate  but  dully  upon  me.  Out-of-the- 
way  humours  and  opinions  —  heads  with  some  diverting 
twist  in  them  —  the  oddities  of  authorship,  please  me 
most.  My  cousin  has  a  native  disrelish  of  anything 
that  sounds  odd  or  bizarre.  Nothing  goes  down  with 
her  that  is  quaint,  irregular,  or  out  of  the  road  of 
common  sympathy.  She  "  holds  Nature  more  clever." 
I  can  pardon  her  blindness  to  the  beautiful  obliquities 
of  the  Religio  Medici  ;  but  she  must  apologise  to  me 
for  certain  disrespectful  insinuations,  which  she  has  been 
pleased  to  throw  out  latterly,  touching  the  intellectuals  of 
a  dear  favourite  of  mine,  of  the  last  century  but  one  — 
the  thrice  noble,  chaste,  and  virtuous,  but  again  some- 
what fantastical  and  original  brained,  generous  Margaret 
Newcastle. 

It  has  been  the  lot  of  my  cousin,  oftener  perhaps  than 
I  could  have  wished,  to  have  had  for  her  associates  and 
mine,  free-thinkers  —  leaders,  and  disciples,  of  novel 
philosophies  and  systems,  but  she  neither  wrangles  with, 
nor  accepts,  their  opinions.  That  which  was  good  and 
venerable  to  her,  when  a  child,  retains  its  authority  over 
her  mind  still.  She  never  juggles  or  plays  tricks  with 
her  understanding. 

We  are  both  of  us  inclined  to  be  a  little  too  positive ; 
and  I  have  observed  the  result  of  our  disputes  to  be 
almost  uniformly  this  —  that  in  matters  of  fact,  dates, 
and  circumstances,  it  turns  out  that  I  was  in  the  right, 
and  my  cousin  in  the  wrong.  But  where  we  have 
differed  upon  moral  points ;  upon  something  proper  to 
be  done  or  let  alone ;  whatever  heat  of  opposition  or 
308 


Immortal  Sisters 

steadiness  of  conviction  I  set  out  with,  I  am  sure  always, 
in  the  long-run,  to  be  brought  over  to  her  way  of 
thinking. 

I  must  touch  upon  the  foibles  of  my  kinswoman  with 
a  gentle  hand,  for  Bridget  does  not  like  to  be  told  of 
her  faults.  She  hath  an  awkward  trick  (to  say  no  worse 
of  it)  of  reading  in  company:  at  which  times  she  will 
answer  yes  or  no  to  a  question,  without  fully  under- 
standing its  purport  —  which  is  provoking,  and  derogatory 
in  the  highest  degree  to  the  dignity  of  the  putter  of  the 
said  question.  Her  presence  of  mind  is  equal  to  the 
most  pressing  trials  of  life,  but  will  sometimes  desert  her 
upon  trifling  occasions.  When  the  purpose  requires  it, 
and  is  a  thing  of  moment,  she  can  speak  to  it  greatly ; 
but  in  matters  which  are  not  stuff  of  the  conscience,  she 
hath  been  known  sometimes  to  let  slip  a  word  less 
seasonably. 

Her  education  in  youth  was  not  much  attended  to ; 
and  she  happily  missed  all  that  train  of  female  garniture 
which  passeth  by  the  name  of  accomplishments.  She 
was  tumbled  early,  by  accident  or  design,  into  a  spacious 
closet  of  good  old  English  reading,  without  much 
selection  or  prohibition,  and  browsed  at  will  upon  that 
fair  and  wholesome  pasturage.  Had  I  twenty  girls, 
they  should  be  brought  up  exactly  in  this  fashion.  I 
know  not  whether  their  chance  in  wedlock  might  not 
be  diminished  by  it,  but  I  can  answer  for  it  that  it  makes 
(if  the  worst  come  to  the  worst)  most  incomparable  old 
maids. 

In  a  season  of  distress,  she  is  the  truest  comforter; 
but  in  the  teasing  accidents  and  minor  perplexities, 
which  do  not  call  out  the  will  to  meet  them,  she  some- 
times maketh  matters  worse  by  an  excess  of  participation. 
If  she  does  not  always  divide  your  trouble,  upon  the 
3°9 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 


pleasanter  occasions  of  life  she  is  sure  always  to  treble 
your  satisfaction.  She  is  excellent  to  be  at  play  with, 
or  upon  a  visit ;  but  best,  when  she  goes  a  journey  with 
you. 

Charles  Lamb 

Dorothy  Wordsworth    o       *o        "O        *o       ^> 

I 
T  KNEW  a  maid, 

A  young  enthusiast.  .  .  . 

Birds  in  the  bower,  and  lambs  in  the  green  field 
Could    they    have    known     her,     would     have     loved ; 

methought 

Her  very  presence  such  a  sweetness  breathed, 
That  flowers,  and  trees,  and  even  the  silent  hills, 
And  everything  she  looked  on,  should  have  had 
An  intimation  how  she  bore  herself 
Towards  them,  and  to  all  creatures.     God  delights 
In  such  a  being ;  for  her  common  thoughts 
Are  piety,  her  life  is  gratitude. 

II 

SHE  gave  me  eyes,  she  gave  me  ears, 
And  humble  cares,  and  delicate  fears ; 
A  heart,  the  fountain  of  sweet  tears, 
And  love,  and  thought,  and  joy. 

W.  Wordsworth 

III 

1  T  7ORDSWORTH  and  his   exquisite  sister  are  with 

»  V       me.     She  is  a  woman  indeed  —  in  mind,  I  mean, 

and  in  heart ;  for  her  person  is  such  that  if  you  expected 

to  see  a  pretty  woman,  you  would  think  her  ordinary ;  if 

310 


Immortal  Sisters 

you  expected  to  see  an  ordinary  woman,  you  would  think 
her  pretty ;  but  her  manners  are  simple,  ardent,  and 
impressive.  In  every  motion  her  innocent  soul  outbeams 
so  brightly  that  who  saw  her  would  say,  "  Guilt  was  a 
thing  impossible  to  her."  Her  information  various,  her 
life  watchful  in  minutest  observation  of  nature ;  and  her 
taste  a  perfect  electrometer. 

S.  T.  Coleridge 


Eugenie  de  Gu£rin      *^>        -o>        ^>        ^y        ^> 

T7UGENIE  DE  GUERIN  was  born  in  1805,  at 
*— *  the  Chateau  of  Le  Cayla,  in  Languedoc.  Her 
family,  though  reduced  in  circumstances,  was  noble; 
and  even  when  one  is  a  saint  one  cannot  quite  forget 
that  one  comes  of  the  stock  of  the  Guarini  of  Italy,  or 
that  one  counts  among  one's  ancestors  a  Bishop  of  Senlis, 
who  had  the  marshalling  of  the  French  order  of  battle 
on  the  day  of  Bouvines. 

Le  Cayla  was  a  solitary  place,  with  its  terrace  looking 
down  upon  a  stream-bed  and  valley ;  "  one  may  pass 
days  there  without  seeing  any  living  thing  but  the 
sheep,  without  hearing  any  living  thing  but  the  birds." 
M.  de  Gue"rin,  Eugenie's  father,  lost  his  wife  when 
Eugdnie  was  thirteen  years  old,  and  Maurice  seven;  he 
was  left  with  four  children  —  Eugdnie,  Marie,  Erembert, 
and  Maurice,  was  the  youngest.  This  youngest  child, 
whose  beauty  and  delicacy  had  made  him  the  object 
of  his  mother's  most  anxious  fondness,  was  commended 
by  her  in  dying  to  the  care  of  his  sister  Euge'nie.  .  .  . 

Mdlle.  de  Gudrin  is  not  one  of  these  Saints  arrived  at 
perfect  sweetness  and  calm,  steeped  in  ecstacy ;  there  is 
something  primitive,  indomitable  in  her,  which  she 
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governs,  indeed,  but  which  chafes,  which  revolts. 
Somewhere  in  the  depths  of  that  strong  nature  there  is 
a  struggle,  and  impatience,  an  inquietude,  an  ennui, 
which  endures  to  the  end,  and  which  leaves  one,  when 
one  finally  closes  her  journal,  with  an  impression  of 
profound  melancholy. 

"  There  are  days,"  she  writes  to  her  brother,  "  when 
one's  nature  rolls  itself  up,  and  becomes  a  hedgehog. 
If  I  had  you  here  at  this  moment,  here  close  by  me, 
how  I  should  prick  you!  how  sharp  and  hard!  " 

"Poor  soul,  poor  soul,"  she  cries  out  to  herself  another 
day,  "  what  is  the  matter,  what  would  you  have  ?  " 

"  Where  is  that  which  will  do  you  good  ?  Everything 
is  green,  everything  is  in  bloom,  all  the  air  has  a  breath 
of  flowers.  How  beautiful  it  is!  Well,  I  will  go  out. 
No,  I  should  be  alone,  and  all  this  beauty,  when  one  is 
alone,  is  worth  nothing.  What  shall  I  do  then?  Read, 
write,  pray,  take  a  basket  of  sand  on  my  head  like  that 
hermit-saint,  and  walk  with  it?  Yes,  work,  work! 
Keep  busy  the  body  which  does  mischief  to  the  soul! 
I  have  been  too  little  occupied  to-day,  and  that  is  bad 
for  one,  and  it  gives  a  certain  ennui  which  I  have  in  me 
time  to  ferment.  .  .  ." 

They  [Maurice  and  Eugenie]  were  knit  together,  not 
only  by  the  tie  of  blood  and  early  attachment,  but  also 
by  the  tie  of  a  common  genius.  "  We  were,"  says 
Eugdnie,  "two  eyes  looking  out  of  one  head."  She,  on 
her  part,  brought  to  her  love  for  her  brother  the  devoted- 
ness  of  a  woman,  the  intensity  of  a  recluse,  almost  the 
solicitude  of  a  mother. 

Her  home  duties  prevented  her  from  following  the 
wish,  which  often  arose  in  her,  to  join  a  religious  sister- 
hood. There  is  a  trace  —  just  a  trace  —  of  an  early 
attachment  to  a  cousin ;  but  he  died  when  she  was 
312 


Immortal  Sisters 

twenty-four.  After  that,  she  lived  for  Maurice.  It  was 
for  Maurice  that,  in  addition  to  her  constant  correspon- 
dence with  him  by  letter,  she  began  in  1834  her  journal 
which  was  sent  to  him  by  portions  as  it  was  finished. 
After  his  death  she  tried  to  continue  it,  addressing  it  to 
"  Maurice  in  heaven."  But  the  effort  was  beyond  her 
strength;  gradually  the  entries  became  rarer  and  rarer; 
and  on  the  last  day  of  December  1840  the  pen  dropped 
from  her  hand:  the  journal  ends. 

Matthew  Arnold 


3'3 


XXVIII 

AUNTS  AND  GRANDMOTHERS 
Auntie     <^       "O       x^       ^>       ^y       *^>       <^ 

S~*HIEF  of  our  Aunts—  not  only  I, 
>— '     But  all  your  dozen  of  nurslings  cry  — 
What  did  the  other  children  do, 
And  what  were  childhood,  wanting  you? 

R.  L.  Stevenson 

Aunt  Caroline    ^>       *o       o       ^o       -^       <c: 

A  UNT  CAROLINE  was  Beauty's  queen, 
£*-    A  very  volatile  Althea, 
When  Russell  split  with  Aberdeen 
And  Raglan  died  in  the  Crimea ; 
She  watched  the  great  Duke's  funeral  pass, 
Heard  the  drums  roll,  the  cannon  thunder ; 
She  walked  in  Paxton's  house  of  glass, 
And  saw  the  marvels  ranged  thereunder. 

Her  days  of  girlhood  and  quadrilles, 
That  poetry  of  old-fashioned  motion, 
Were  days  when  from  the  Punjaub  hills 
Came  honours  mailed  across  the  ocean ; 
3H 


Aunts  and  Grandmothers 

When  India  shuddered  at  the  shock, 
And  peaceful  men,  turned  raving  jingoes, 
Spoke  with  white  lips  of  Havelock, 
Or  Hodson  and  his  bold  Flamingoes. 

When  of  dramatic  things  she  tells, 
What  heroes  of  the  stage  assemble! 
She  saw  Phelps  play  at  Sadler's  Wells, 
She  saw  Charles  Kean  and  Fanny  Kemble ; 
The  Opera-House  she  still  connects 
With  Mario  and  //  Trovatore, 
And  quite  distinctly  recollects 
The  Swedish  Nightingale  furore. 

Though  once  she  might  her  voice  have  raised 
Against  this  accurate  reminder 
Of  dated  history  which  appraised 
The  years  that  she  had  left  behind  her ; 
Now  when  her  good  grey  hairs  confess 
The  nonsense  of  evasion  clearly, 
Admitting  sixty  more  or  less, 
She  loves  a  reminiscence  dearly. 

Not  that  in  truth  she  seems  inclined 
To  yield  to  Time's  advancing  forces, 
For  strong  alike  in  limb  and  mind, 
Alive  with  interest  and  resources, 
She  stands,  a  product  of  the  reign, 
Without  a  sign  of  flaw  or  fracture, 
Reflecting  credit,  I  maintain, 
Upon  Victorian  manufacture. 

That  worthy  age  of  green  and  gilt, 
Less  picturesque  perhaps  than  solid, 
For  all  its  queer  aesthetic  built 
Its  women,  like  its  sofas,  solid  ; 
3'5 


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So  with  her  brisk  and  active  air, 
And  upright  as  a  wand  of  willow, 
She  shows  as  little  wear  and  tear 
As  any  sideboard  made  by  Gillow. 

Myself,  in  youth's  enchanted  dawn, 
When  days  were  long  and  suns  were  warmer, 
Recall  upon  the  croquet  lawn 
Aunt  Caroline  no  mean  performer ; 
In  royal  fight  she  would  engage, 
Sure  was  her  hand  and  few  her  errors, 
For  her  it  seemed  as  though  the  cage 
Had  lost  its  customary  terrors. 

As  I  remember  her,  with  locks 
Sedately  coiled  and  neatly  plaited, 
Wearing  the  fullest-flounced  of  frocks, 
Prunella-shod  or  pork-pie-hatted, 
She  might  have  been  designed  by  Leech, 
Or  stepped  from  one  of  Trollope's  pages, 
One  who  had  charmed  with  sparkling  speech 
His  Barset  potentates  and  sages. 

She  flouted  the  lawn-tennis  craze, 

Nor  talked  of  services  and  volleys. 

Though  none  observes  with  friendlier  gaze 

A  newer  generation's  follies  ; 

And  when  the  bicycle  in  turn 

Came  to  assert  its  fascination, 

She  used  to  vow  that  she  would  learn 

Upon  the  smallest  provocation. 

She  lives  in  a  Cathedral  town, 
Where,  ruler  of  the  small  society, 
Tea-parties,  trembling  at  her  frown, 
Reflect  her  views  about  propriety  ; 
316 


Aunts  and  Grandmothers 

And  there  she  wags  her  kindly  tongue 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Minster, 
The  ever  old,  the  ever  young, 
A  picture  of  the  lively  spinster. 

Sometimes,  in  sentimental  mood, 

A  merry  hint  or  two  she  proffers 

Of  swains  who  sighed  and  swains  who  wooed, 

And  made  her  eligible  offers  ; 

She  heard  their  flatteries  at  her  ease, 

She  saw  her  girl  companions  marry, 

But  she  was  hard,  she  says,  to  please, 

And  none  could  captivate  Aunt  Carrie. 

Well,  in  her  time  she  may  have  thrown 
Hopes  to  the  ground  in  doleful  pieces, 
Yet  this  capricious  wind  has  blown 
Good  to  her  nephews  and  her  nieces ; 
For  whom  her  love  is  ever  sure 
And  faithful,  as  befits  her  gender, 
Strong  to  appreciate  and  endure, 
Always  considerate,  always  tender. 

Alfred  Cochrane 

Old  Aunt  Mary  <^v       <^y       -o       <i>-       <iy 

YOU  who  have  journeyed  the  wide  world  through  — 
Knowing  the  Old  World  as  the  New,  — 
Cruise  or  pilgrimage  or  shrine, 
Found  you  ever  so  all-divine 
A  haven  as  first  was  yours  and  mine 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's  ? 

Wasn't  it  pleasant,  O  brother  mine, 
In  those  old  days  of  the  lost  sunshine 
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Of  youth  —  when  the  Saturday's  chores  were  through, 
And  the  "  Sunday  wood  "  in  the  kitchen,  too, 
And  we  went  visiting.  "  me  and  you," 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's  ? 

"Me  and  you "  — and  the  morning  fair, 
With  the  dewdrops  twinkling  everywhere ; 

The  scent  of  the  cherry-blossoms  blown 

After  us,  in  the  roadway  lone. 

Our  capering  shadows  onward  thrown  — 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's! 

It  all  comes  back  so  clear  to-day ! 

Though  I  am  as  bald  as  you  are  gray,  — 
Out  by  the  barn-lot,  and  down  the  lane, 
We  patter  along  in  the  dust  again, 
As  light  as  the  tips  of  the  drops  of  the  rain, 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's !  .  .  . 

Why,  I  see  her  now  in  the  open  door, 

Where  the  little  gourds  grew  up  the  sides  and  o'er 

The  clapboard  roof !  —  And  her  face  — ah,  me ! 

Wasn't  it  good  for  a  boy  to  see  — 

And  wasn't  it  good  for  a  boy  to  be 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's. 

The  jelly,  the  jam,  and  the  marmalade, 
And  the  cherry  and  quince  "preserves"  she  made! 
And  the  sweet-sour  pickles  of  peach  and  pear, 
With  cinnamon  in  'em,  and  all  things  rare!  — 
And  the  more  we  ate  was  the  more  to  spare, 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's  ! 

Ah !  was  there,  ever,  so  kind  a  face 
And  gentle  as  hers,  or  such  a  grace 


Aunts  and  Grandmothers 

Of  welcoming,  as  she  cut  the  cake 
Or  the  juicy  pies  that  she  joyed  to  make 
Just  for  the  visiting  children's  sake  — 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's. 

The  honey,  too,  in  its  amber  comb 

One  only  finds  in  an  old  farm-home ; 

And  the  coffee,  fragrant  and  sweet,  and  ho! 
So  hot  that  we  gloried  to  drink  it  so, 
With  spangles  of  tears  in  our  eyes,  you  know  — 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's. 

And  the  romps  we  took,  in  our  glad  unrest !  — 

Was  it  the  lawn  that  we  loved  the  best, 

With  its  swooping  swing  in  the  locust  trees, 
Or  was  it  the  grove,  with  its  leafy  breeze, 
Or  the  dim  hay-mow,  with  its  fragrances  — 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's. 

Far  fields,  bottom-lands,  creek -banks  —  all, 
We  ranged  at  will.  —  Where  the  waterfall 
Laughed  all  day  as  it  slowly  poured 
Over  the  dam  by  the  old  mill-ford, 
While    the    tail-race    writhed,    and    the    mill-wheel 
roared  — 

Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's. 

But  home,  with  Aunty  in  nearer  call, 

That  was  the  best  place,  after  all !  — 
The  talks  on  the  back-porch,  in  the  low 
Slanting  sun  and  the  evening  glow, 
With  the  voice  of  counsel  that  touched  us  so, 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's. 

And  then,  in  the  garden —  near  the  side 

Where  the  bee-hives  were  and  the  path  was  wide,  — 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

The  apple-house  —  like  a  fairy  cell  — 
With  the  little  square  door  we  knew  so  well, 
And  the  wealth  inside  :  but  our  tongues  could  tell  — 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's. 

And  the  old  spring-house  in  the  cool  green  gloom 
Of  the  willow  trees,  —  and  the  cooler  room 

Where  the  swinging-shelves  and  the  crocks  were  kept, 
Where  the  cream  in  a  golden  languor  slept, 
While  the  waters  gurgled  and  laughed  and  wept  — 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's. 

And  as  many  a  time  have  you  and  I  — 

Barefoot  boys  in  the  days  gone  by  — 
Knelt,  and  in  tremulous  ecstasies 
Dipped  our  lips  into  sweets  like  these,  — 
Memory  now  is  on  her  knees 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's.  — 

And  O,  my  brother,  so  far  away, 
This  is  to  tell  you,  she  waits  to-day 
To  welcome  us  :  —  Aunt  Mary  fell 
Asleep  this  morning,  whispering  —  "  Tell 
The  boys  to  come  !  "  .  .  .  And  all  is  well 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's. 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 

From  "  Afterwhiles,"  copyright,  1887,  by  James  Whitcomb  Riley. 
The  Bobbs-Merrill  Co.,  Publishers. 

The  Aunt  ^>       ^>       ^>       o       ^^       *c> 

[EXT,  the  dear  Aunt,  whose  smile  of  cheer 


N1 


And  voice  in  dreams  I  see  and  hear,  — 
The  sweetest  woman  ever  Fate 
Perverse  denied  a  household  mate. 
Who,  lonely  homeless,  not  the  less 
Found  peace  in  love's  unselfishness, 
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Aunts  and  Grandmothers 

And  welcome  wheresoe'er  she  went, 
A  calm  and  gracious  element, 
Whose  presence  seemed  the  sweet  income 
And  womanly  atmosphere  of  home,  — 
Called  up  her  girlhood  memories, 
The  huskings  and  the  apple-bees, 
The  sleigh-rides,  and  the  summer-sails, 
Weaving  through  all  the  poor  details 
And  homespun  warp  of  circumstance 
A  golden  woof-thread  of  romance, 
For  well  she  kept  her  genial  mood 
And  simple  faith  of  maidenhood  ; 
Before  her  still  a  cloud-land  lay, 
The  mirage  loomed  across  her  way  ; 
The  morning  dew,  that  dries  so  soon 
With  others,  glistened  at  her  noon  ; 
Through  years  of  toil  and  soil  and  care, 
From  glossy  tress  to  thin  grey  hair, 
All  unprofaned  she  held  apart 
The  virgin  fancies  of  her  heart, 
Be  shame  to  him  of  woman  born 
Who  hath  for  such  but  thought  of  scorn. 

/.  G.  Whittier 


Aunt  Anne       <^x       *^y       ^>        <dx        <^y       *c^ 

AUNT     ANNE     was    slight    and    old,    nearly    sixty 
perhaps.     All  over  her   face  there  were  little  lines 
that  crossed   and   re-crossed,  and  branched  off  in  every 
direction.     She  had  grey  hair,  and  small  dark  eyes  that 
blinked    quickly   and    nervously  ;    there   appeared    to   be 
some  trifling  affection  of  the  left  eye,  for  now  and  then, 
as  if  by  accident,  it  winked  at  you.     The  odd  thing  was 
that,  in  spite  of  her  evident  tendency  to  nervous  excite- 
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merit,  her  shabby  black  satin  dress,  almost  threadbare 
shawl,  and  cheap  gloves,  there  was  an  air  of  dignity 
about  the  spare  old  lady,  and  something  like  determina- 
tion in  her  kindly  voice  that,  joined  to  her  impulsive  ten- 
derness, made  you  quickly  understand  she  would  be  a  very 
difficult  person  to  oppose. 

"  Dear  boy,"  she  said  gently  to  Walter,  "  why  didn't 
you  write  to  me  when  you  were  married  ?  you  know  how 
glad  I  should  have  been  to  hear  of  your  happiness." 

"Why  didn't  you  write  to  me,  Aunt  Anne?  "  he  asked, 
gaily  turning  the  tables. 

"  Yes.  I  ought  to  have  done  so.  You  must  forgive  me, 
dears,  for  being  so  remiss,"  she  answered,  looking  at 
them  both,  "  and  believe  me  that  it  was  from  no  lack  of 
affection.  But,"  she  went  on  quickly,  "we  must  not 
waste  our  time.  You  are  coming  to  Rottingdean  with 
me,  and  at  once.  Mr.  Baines  is  longing  to  see  you 
both." 

"But  we  can't  go  now,  Aunt  Anne,"  Walter  declared 
in  his  kindest  manner;  "we  must  get  back  to  the 
lodgings.  We  told  them  to  have  luncheon  ready  at 
one  o'clock,  and  to-night  we  go  home.  You  must  come 
and  lunch  with  us." 

"  That  is  impossible,  dear  Walter ;  you  are  coming  back 
with  me." 

"  It  can't  be  done  to-day,"  he  said  regretfully. 

"  My  dear  Walter,"  she  answered,  with  a  look  of 
dismay  and  in  a  voice  that  was  almost  pained,  "  what 
would  your  uncle  say  if  he  heard  you?  I  could  not 
possibly  return  without  you." 

"  But  he  has  never  seen  me,  Aunt  Anne." 

"  That  is  one  reason  why  he  would  never  forgive  me  if  I 
did  not  take  you  back." 

"  But  it  is  so  far,  and  we  should  be  all  day  getting 
322 


Aunts  and  Grandmothers 

there,"  Walter  objected  a  little    helplessly,   for  he  felt 
already  that  Aunt  Anne  would  carry  her  point. 

"  It  is  only  to  Rottingdean "  —  she  spoke  with  hurt 
surprise  —  "  and  we  will  drive.  I  saw  a  beautiful  fly  as 
I  was  coming  on  to  the  pier,  and  engaged  it.  I  know 
you  too  well,  my  darling,  to  think  that  you  will  refuse 
me.1' 

Her  manner  had  changed  in  a  moment;  she  said  the 
last  words  with  soft  triumph,  and  looked  at  Florence. 
The  sight  of  the  young  wife  seemed  to  be  too  much  for 
her ;  there  was  something  like  a  tear  in  the  left  eye,  the 
one  that  winked,  when  she  spoke  again. 

"  I  must  give  her  a  kiss,"  she  said  tenderly,  and 
putting  out  her  arms  she  gathered  the  girl  to  her  heart. 
"  But  we  must  make  haste,"  she  added  quickly,  hurrying 
over  the  fag  end  of  her  embrace,  as  if  she  had  not  time 
to  indulge  in  her  feelings  much  as  she  desired  to  do  so. 
"  Mr.  Baines  will  wonder  what  has  happened  to  us.  He 
is  longing  to  see  you ;"  and  without  their  knowing  it, 
she  almost  chased  them  along  the  pier. 

Mrs.  W.  K.  Clifford 

Granny    "c^       "^>       <^y       ^>       o       *o       ^ 

/CRANNY'S  come  to  our  house, 
vJ     And  ho  !  my  lawzy-daisy ! 
All  the  children  round  the  place 
Is  ist  a-runnin1  crazy! 
Fetched  a  cake  fer  little  Jake, 
And  fetched  a  pie  fer  Nanny, 
And  fetched  a  pear  fer  all  the  pack 
That  runs  to  kiss  their  Granny ! 

Lucy  Ellen's  in  her  lap, 
And  Wade  and  Silas  Walker 
323 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 


Both's  a-ridin1  on  her  foot. 

And  'Polio's  on  the  rocker ; 

And  Marthy's  twins,  from  Aunt  Marin's, 

And  little  orphant  Anny, 

All's  a-eatin'  ginger  bread 

And  giggle-un  at  Granny! 

Tells  us  all  the  fairy  tales 
Ever  thought  er  wundered  — 
And  'bundance  o'  other  stories  — 
Bet  she  knows  a  hunderd !  — 
Bob's  the  one  fer  "  Whittington," 
And  "  Golden  Locks  "  for  Fanny! 
Here  'em  laugh  and  clap  their  hands, 
Listenin'  at  Granny ! 

"  Jack  the  Giant-killer  "  's  good, 
And  "  Bean  Stalk  "  's  another!  — 
So's  the  one  of  "  CinderellV 
And  her  old  godmother ;  — 
That  un's  best  of  all  the  rest  — 
Bestest  one  of  any  — 
Where  the  mices  scampers  home 
Like  we  runs  to  Granny. 

Granny's  come  to  our  house, 
Ho!  my  lawzy-daisy! 
All  the  children  round  the  place 
Is  ist  a-runnin'  crazy! 
Fetched  a  cake  fer  little  Jake, 
And  fetched  a  pie  fer  Nanny, 
And  fetched  a  pear  fer  all  the  pack 
That  runs  to  kiss  their  Granny ! 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 

From  "  Afterwhiles,"  copyright,  1887,  by  James  Whitcomb  Riley. 
The  Bobbs-Merrill  Co.,  Publishers. 
"324 


Aunts  and  Grandmothers 


Crammer's  Shoes          ^>       ^>       ^>       -<^       ^> 

I  DO  seem  to  zee  Grammer  as  she  did  use 
Vor  to  show  us,  at  Chris'mas,  her  wedden  shoes, 
An'  her  flat  spreaden  bonnet  so  big  an'  roun' 
As  a  girt  pewter  dish  a-turn'd  upside  down; 
When  we  all  did  draw  near 
In  a  cluster  to  hear, 

O'  the  merry  wold  soul,  how  she  did  use 
To  walk  an'  dance  wi'  her  high-heel  shoes. 

She'd  a  gown  wi'  girt  flowers  lik'  hollyhocks, 
An'  zome  stockens  o'  Gramfer's  a-knit  wi'  clocks, 
An'  a  token  she  kept  under  lock  an'  key,  — 
A  small  lock  ov  his  hea'ir  offavore  't  wer  grey. 

An'  her  eyes  were  red, 

An'  she  shook  her  head, 
When  we'd  all  a-look'd  at  it,  an'  she  did  use 
To  lock  it  away  wi'  her  wedden  shoes. 

She  could  tell  us  such  tea'les  about  heavy  snows, 
An'  o'  rains  an'  o'  floods  when  the  water  rose 
All  up  into  the  housen,  an'  carr'd  awoy 
All  the  bridge  wi'  a  man  an'  his  little  bwoy ; 

An1  o'  vog  an'  vrost/ 

An'  o'  v6k  a-lost, 

An'  o'  pearties  at  Chris'mas,  when  she  did  use 
Vor  to  walk  whome  wi'  Gramfer  in  high-heel  shoes. 

Ev'ry  Chris'mas  she  lik'd  vor  the  bells  to  ring, 
An'  to  have  in  the  zingers  to  hear  'em  zing 
The  wold  carols  she  heard  many  years  a-gone, 
While  she  warm'd  'em  zome  cider  avore  the  bron' ; 
325 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

An1  she'd  look  an1  smile 

At  our  dancen,  while 

She  did  tell  how  her  friends  now  a-gone  did  use 
To  reely  wi'  her  in  their  high-heel  shoes. 

Ah !  an'  how  she  did  like  vor  to  deck  wi1  red 
Holly-berries  the  window  an'  wold  clock's  head, 
An'  the  clavy  wi'  boughs  o'  some  bright  green  leaves, 
An'  to  mea'ke  twoast  an'  ea'le  upon  Chris'mas  eves. 

But  she's  now,  drough  grea'ce, 

In  a  better  pleace, 

Though  we'll  never  vorget  her,  poor  soul,  nor  lose 
Gramfer's  token  ov  heair,  nor  her  wedden  shoes. 

William  Barnes 


My  Grandmother  <^y      <o      *o      ^o      *^> 

(Suggested  by  a  Picture  by  Romney) 

THIS  relative  of  mine, 
Was  she  seventy-and-nine 
When  she  died? 
By  the  canvas  may  be  seen 
How  she  look'd  at  seventeen, 
As  a  Bride. 

Beneath  a  summer  tree, 
Her  maiden  reverie 

Has  a  charm ; 
Her  ringlets  are  in  taste  ; 
What  an  arm!  .  .  .  what  a  waist 

For  an  arm ! 

326      _ 


Aunts  and  Grandmothers 

With  her  bridal-wreath,  bouquet, 
Lace  farthingale,  and  gay 

Falbala,  — 

Were  Romney's  limning  true, 
What  a  lucky  dog  were  you, 

Grandpapa ! 

Her  lips  are  sweet  as  love ; 

They  are  parting!     Do  they  move? 

Are  they  dumb  ? 
Her  eyes  are  blue,  and  beam 
Beseechingly,  and  seem 

To  say,  "Come!" 

What  funny  fancy  slips 

From  atween  these  cherry  lips ! 

Whisper  me, 
Sweet  Sorceress  in  paint, 
What  canon  says  I  mayn't 

Marry  thee  ? 

That  good-for-nothing  Time 
Has  a  confidence  sublime ! 

When  I  first 

Saw  this  lady,  in  my  youth, 
Her  winters  had,  forsooth, 

Done  their  worst. 

; 

Her  locks,  as  white  as  snow, 
Once  shamed  the  swarthy  crow  ; 

By-and-by 

That  fowl's  avenging  sprite 
Set  his  cruel  foot  for  spite 

Near  her  eye. 
327 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

Her  rounded  form  was  lean 
And  her  silk  was  bombazine : 

Well  I  wot 

With  her  needles  would  she  sit, 
And  for  hours  would  she  knit,  — 

Would  she  not  ? 

Ah  perishable  clay ; 

Her  charms  had  dropt  away 

One  by  one : 
But  if  she  heaved  a  sigh 
With  a  burthen,  it  was,  "  Thy 

Will  be  done." 

In  travail,  as  in  tears, 
With  the  fardel  of  her  years 

Overprest, 

In  mercy  she  was  borne 
Where  the  weary  and  the  worn 

Are  at  rest. 

Oh  if  you  now  are  there, 
And  sweet  as  once  you  were, 

Grandmamma, 
This  nether  world  agrees 
1Twill  all  the  better  please 

Grandpapa. 

Frederick  Locker 


A  Gentlewoman  of  the  Old  School     <ix 

SHE  lived  in  Georgian  era  too. 
Most  women  then,  if  bards  be  true, 
Succumbed  to  Routs  and  Cards,  or  grew 
Devout  and  acid. 
328 


Aunts  and  Grandmothers 

But  hers  was  neither  fate.     She  came 
Of  good  west-country  folk,  whose  fame 
Has  faded  now.     For  us  her  name 
Is  "  Madam  Placid." 

Patience  or  Prudence, — what  you  will, 
Some  prefix  faintly  fragrant  still 
As  those  old  musky  scents  that  fill 

Our  grandams'  pillows ; 
And  for  her  youthful  portrait  take 
Some  long-waist  child  of  Hudson's  make, 
Stiffly  at  ease  beside  a  lake 

With  swans  and  willows. 

I  keep  her  later  semblance  placed 
Beside  my  desk,  —  'tis  lawned  and  laced, 
In  shadowy  sanguine  stipple  traced 

By  Bartolozzi ; 

A  placid  face,  in  which  surprise 
Is  seldom  seen,  but  yet  there  lies 
Some  vestige  of  the  laughing  eyes 

Of  arch  Piozzi. 

For  her  e'en  Time  grew  debonair, 
He,  finding  cheeks  unclaimed  of  care, 
With  late-delayed  faint  roses  there, 

And  lingering  dimples, 
Had  spared  to  touch  the  fair  old  face, 
And  only  kissed  with  Vauxhall  grace 
The  soft  white  hand  that  stroked  her  lace, 

Or.  smoothed  her  wimples. 

So  left  her  beautiful.     Her  age 
Was  comely  as  her  youth  was  sage, 
And  yet  she  once  had  been  the  rage ;  — 
It  hath  been  hinted, 
329 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

Indeed,  affirmed  by  one  or  two, 
Some  spark  at  Bath  (as  sparks  will  do) 
Inscribed  a  song  to  "  Lovely  Prue," 
Which  Urban  printed. 

I  know  she  thought ;  I  know  she  felt ; 
Perchance  could  sum,  I  doubt  she  spelt, 
She  knew  as  little  of  the  Celt 

As  of  the  Saxon ; 

I  know  she  played  and  sang,  for  yet 
We  keep  the  tumble-down  spinet 
To  which  she  quavered  ballads  set 

By  Arne  or  Jackson. 

Her  tastes  were  not  refined  as  ours  ; 
She  liked  plain  food  and  homely  flowers, 
Refused  to  paint,  kept  early  hours, 

Went  clad  demurely ; 
Her  art  was  sampler-work  design, 
Fireworks  for  her  were  "  vastly  fine," 
Her  luxury  was  elder-wine, 

She  loved  that  "  purely." 

She  was  renowned,  traditions  say, 

For  June  conserves,  for  curds  and  whey, 

For  finest  tea  (she  called  it  "tay"), 

And  ratafia ; 

She  knew,  for  sprains,  what  bands  to  choose, 
Could  tell  the  sovereign  wash  to  use 
For  freckles,  and  was  learned  in  brews 

As  erst  Medea. 

Yet  studied  little.     She  would  read, 

On  Sundays,  "  Pearson  on  the  Creed," 

Though,  as  I  think,  she  could  not  heed 

His  text  profoundly ; 

33° 


Aunts  and  Grandmothers 

Seeing  she  chose  for  her  retreat 
The  warm  west-looking  window-seat,    .      'I' 
Where,  if  you  chanced  to  raise  your  feet 
You  slumbered  soundly. 

This,  'twixt  ourselves.     The  dear  old  dame, 
In  truth,  was  not  so  much  to  blame ; 
The  excellent  divine  1  name 

Is  scarcely  stirring ; 
Her  plain-song  piety  preferred 
Pure  life  to  precept.     If  she  erred,  • 
She  knew  her  faults.     Her  softest  word 

Was  for  the  erring. 

If  she  had  loved,  or  if  she  kept 
Some  ancient  memory  green,  or  wept 
Over  the  shoulder-knot  that  slept 

Within  her  cuff-box, 
I  know  not.     Only  this  I  know, 
At  sixty-five  she'd  still  her  beau, 
A  lean  French  exile,  lame  and  slow, 

With  monstrous  snuff-box. 

Younger  than  she,  well  born  and  bred, 
She'd  found  him  in  St.  Giles',  half  dead 
Of  teaching  French  for  nightly  bed 

And  daily  dinners ; 

Starving,  in  fact,  'twixt  want  and  pride ; 
And  so,  henceforth,  you  always  spied 
His  rusty  '<  pigeon-wings  "  beside 

Her  Mechlin  pinners. 

He  worshipped  her,  you  may  suppose. 
She  gained  him  pupils,  gave  him  clothes, 
Delighted  in  his  dry  bon-mots 

And  crackling  laughter ; 
331 


The  Ladies'  Pageant 

And  when,  at  last,  the  long  duet 
Of  conversation  and  picquet 
Ceased  with  her  death,  of  sheer  regret 
He  died  soon  after. 

Dear  Madam  Placid!  Others  knew 
Your  worth  as  well  as  he,  and  threw 
Their  flowers  upon  your  coffin  too, 

I  take  for  granted. 

Their  loves  are  lost ;  but  still  we  see 
Your  kind  and  gracious  memory 
Bloom  yearly  with  the  almond  tree 

The  Frenchman  planted. 

Austin  Dobson 


Beautiful  Women 


W01 


OMEN  sit,  or  move  to  and  fro,   some   old,   some 


young, 

The  young  are  beautiful  —  but  the  old  are  more  beautiful 
than  the  young. 

Walt  Whitman 


Chaucer's  Praise  of  Women        <^>-      o      *o 

PR  this  ye  know  well,  tho'  I  wouldin  lie, 
In  women  is  all  truth  and  steadfastness : 
For  in  good  faith,  I  never  of  them  sie 
But  much  worship,  bounty,  and  gentleness, 
Right  coming,  fair,  and  full  of  meeke'ness ; 
Good,  and  glad,  and  lowly,  I  you  ensure, 
Is  this  goodly  and  angelic  creature. 
332 


Aunts  and  Grandmothers 

And  if  it  hap  a  man  be  in  disease, 
She  doth  her  business  and  her  full  pain, 
With  all  her  might  him  to  comfort  and  please, 
If  fro  his  disease  him  she  might  restrain  : 
In  word  ne  deed,  I  wis,  she  woll  not  faine ; 
With  all  her  might  she  doth  her  business 
To  bringen  him  out  of  his  heaviness. 

Lo,  here  what  gentleness  these  women  have 
If  we  could  know  it  for  our  ruddness! 
How  busy  they  be  us  to  keep  and  save 
Both  in  hele  and  also  in  sickness, 
And  always  right  sorry  for  our  distress! 
In  every  manere  thus  show  they  ruth, 
That  in  them  is  all  goodness  and  all  truth. 

Chaucer 


333 


XXIX 

THE   TYRANTS 

Sarah,  Duchess  of  Marlborough          ^y       <^y       <^y 

OLD  Marlborough  is  dying  —  but  who  can  tell!  last 
year  she  had  lain  a  great  while  ill,  without  speak- 
ing ;  her  physicians  said,  "  She  must  be  blistered,  or 
she  will  die."  She  called  out,  "I  won't  be  blistered, 
and  I  won't  die."  If  she  takes  the  same  resolution  now, 
I  don't  believe  she  will. 

Horace  Walpole 

Lady  Cork         <2y       ^y       *cy       <^       ^y       ^ 
I 

JOHNSON    was   prevailed   with    to    come     sometimes 
into   these   circles,  and   did   not   think   himself    too 
grave  even  for  the  lively  Miss  Monckton  (now  Countess 
of  Cork),  who  used  to  have  the  finest  bit  of  blue  at  the 
house     of    her     mother,    Lady    Galway.      Her    vivacity 
enchanted    the    sage,    and    they   used   to    talk    together 
with  all  imaginable  ease.     A  singular  instance  happened 
one  evening,  when  she  insisted   that   some   of  Sterne's 
33.4 


The  Tyrants 

writings  were  very  pathetic.  Johnson  bluntly  denied  it. 
"I  am  sure,"  said  she,  "they  have  affected  me." 
"  Why,"  said  Johnson,  smiling,  and  rolling  himself  about, 
"  that  is,  because,  dearest,  you're  a  dunce."  When  she 
some  time  afterwards  mentioned  this  to  him,  he  said, 
with  equal  truth  and  politeness,  "Madam,  if  I  had 
thought  so,  I  certainly  should  not  have  said  it." 

James  Boswell 


II 


SHE  was  one  of  the  most  curious  figures  in  the  London 
Society  of  my  girlish  days.  Very  aged,  yet  retaining 
much  of  a  vivacity  of  spirit  and  sprightly  wit  for  which 
she  had  been  famous  as  Mary  Monckton,  she  con- 
tinued till  between  ninety  and  a  hundred  years  old  to 
entertain  her  friends  and  the  gay  world,  who  frequently 
during  the  season  assembled  at  her  house. 

I  have  still  a  note  begging  me  to  come  to  one  of  her 
evening  parties,  written  under  her  dictation  by  a  young 
person  who  used  to  live  with  her  and  whom  she  called 
her  "  memory " ;  the  few  concluding  lines  scrawled  by 
herself  are  signed  "  M.  Cork,  ast.  92."  She  was  rather 
apt  to  appeal  to  her  friends  to  come  to  her  on  the  score 
of  her  age;  and  I  remember  Rogers  showing  me  an 
invitation  he  had  received  from  her  for  one  of  the 
ancient  concert  evenings  (these  were  musical  entertain- 
ments of  the  highest  order,  which  Mr.  Rogers  never 
failed  to  attend),  couched  in  these  terms :  "  Dear 
Rogers,  leave  the  ancient  music  and  come  to  ancient 
Cork,  93."  Lady  Cork's  drawing-rooms  were  rather 
peculiar  in  their  arrangements :  they  did  not  contain 
that  very  usual  piece  of  furniture,  a  pianoforte,  so  that 
335 


The   Ladies'   Pageant 


if  she  ever  especially  desired  to  have  music  she  hired 
an  instrument  for  the  evening ;  the  rest  of  the  furni- 
ture consisted  only  of  very  large  and  handsome  arm- 
chairs placed  round  the  apartments  against  the  walls, 
to  which  they  were  made  fast  by  some  mysterious 
process,  so  that  it  was  quite  impossible  to  form 
a  small  circle  or  coterie  of  one's  own  at  one  of  her 
assemblies. 

Lady  Cork's  great  age  did  not  appear  to  interfere 
with  her  enjoyment  of  society,  in  which  she  lived 
habitually.  I  remember  a  very  comical  conversation 
with  her  in  which  she  was  endeavouring  to  appoint  some 
day  for  my  dining  with  her,  our  various  engagements 
appearing  to  clash.  She  took  up  the  pocket-book  where 
hers  were  inscribed,  and  began  reading  them  out  with 
the  following  running  commentary :  "  Wednesday —  no, 
Wednesday  won't  do;  Lady  Holland  dines  with  me  — 
naughty  lady!  —  won't  do,  my  dear.  Thursday?"  "  Very 
sorry,  Lady  Cork,  we  are  engaged."  "  Ah  yes,  so  am 
I;  let's  see  —  Friday;  no,  Friday  I  have  the  Duchess 

of  C ,  another  naughty  lady ;  mustn't  come  then,  my 

dear.  Saturday?"  "No,  Lady  Cork,  I  am  very  sorry 

—  we  are  engaged  to  Lady  D ."  "  Oh  dear,  oh  dear ! 

improper  lady,  too!  but  a  long  time  ago,  everybody's 
forgotten  all  about  it,  —  very  proper  now!  quite  proper 
now!"  .  .  . 

The  unfortunate  propensity  of  poor  Lady  Cork  to 
appropriate  all  sorts  of  things  belonging  to  other 
people,  valueless  quite  as  often  as  valuable,  was  matter 
of  public  notoriety,  so  that  the  fashionable  London 
tradesmen,  to  whom  her  infirmity  in  this  respect  was 
well  known,  never  allowed  their  goods  to  be  taken  to 
her  carriage  for  inspection,  but  always  exacted  that  she 
should  come  into  their  shops,  where  an  individual  was 
336 


The  Tyrants 

immediately  appointed    to    follow  her   about    and    watch 
her  during  the  whole  time  she  was  making  purchases. 

Fanny  Kemble 


Mrs.  Dundas       <^x       <iy       <^*       ^>       -^>-       ^> 

THERE  was  a  singular  race  of  excellent  Scotch 
old  ladies.  They  were  a  delightful  set;  strong- 
headed,  warm-hearted,  and  high-spirited ;  the  fire  of 
their  tempers  not  always  latent ;  merry,  even  in  solitude ; 
very  resolute ;  indifferent  about  the  modes  and  habits 
of  the  modern  world ;  and  adhering  to  their  own  ways? 
so  as  to  stand  out,  like  primitive  rocks,  above  ordinary 
Society.  Their  prominent  qualities  of  sense,  humour, 
affection,  and  spirit  were  embodied  in  curious  outsides ; 
for  they  all  dressed  and  spoke  and  did  exactly  as  they 
chose ;  their  language,  their  habits,  entirely  Scotch,  but 
without  any  other  vulgarity  than  what  perfect  naturalness 
is  sometimes  taken  for. 

There  sits  a  clergyman's  widow,  the  mother  of  the 
first  Sir  David  Dundas,  the  introducer  of  our  German 
System  of  military  manoeuvres,  and  at  one  time  Com- 
mander-in -Chief  of  the  British  Army.  We  used  to 
go  to  her  house  in  Bunker's  Hill,  when  boys,  on  Sundays 
between  the  morning  and  afternoon  sermons,  where  we 
were  cherished  with  Scotch  broth,  and  cakes,  and  many 
a  joke  from  the  old  lady.  Age  had  made  her  incapable 
of  walking  even  across  the  room ;  so,  clad  in  a  plain 
black  silk  gown,  and  a  pure  muslin  cap,  she  sat  half- 
encircled  by  a  high-backed  black  leather  chair,  reading ; 
with  silver  spectacles  stuck  on  her  thin  nose ;  and  in- 
terspersing her  studies  and  her  days  with  much  laughter, 
and  not  a  little  sarcasm.  What  a  spirit!  There  was 
z  337 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 


more  fun  and  sense  round  that  chair  than  in  the  theatre 
or  the  church.  I  remember  one  of  her  grand-daughters 
stumbling,  in  the  course  of  reading  the  newspaper  to  her, 
on  a  paragraph  which  stated  that  a  lady's  reputation  had 
suffered  from  some  indiscreet  talk  on  the  part  of  the  Prince 
of  Wales. 

Up  she  of  fourscore  sat,  and  said  with  an  indignant 
shake  of  her  shrivelled  fist,  and  a  keen  voice — "The 
damned  villain!  does  he  kiss  and  tell?" 

Lord  Cockburn 


Lady  Don  and  Mrs.  Rochead  of  Inverleith  ^      ^ 

THEY  had  both  shone,  first  as  hooped  beauties  in  the 
minuets,  and  then  as  ladies  of  ceremonies,  at  our 
stately  assemblies ;  and  each  carried  her  peculiar 
qualities  and  air  to  the  very  edge  of  the  grave ;  Lady 
Don's  dignity  softened  by  gentle  sweetness,  Mrs. 
Rochead^s  made  more  formidable  by  cold  and  rather 
severe  solemnity. 

Except  Mrs.  Siddons  in  some  of  her  displays  of 
magnificent  royalty,  nobody  could  sit  down  like  the 
lady  of  Inverleith.  She  would  sail,  like  a  ship  from 
Tarshish,  gorgeous  in  velvet  or  rustling  in  silk,  and 
done  up  in  all  the  accompaniments  of  fan,  ear-rings, 
and  finger-rings,  falling  sleeves,  scent  bottle,  embroidered 
bag,  hoop  and  train  —  all  superb,  yet  all  in  purest  taste ; 
and  managing  all  this  seemingly  heavy  rigging,  with 
as  much  ease  as  a  full-blown  swan  does  its  plumage, 
she  would  take  possession  of  the  centre  of  a  large  sofa, 
and  at  the  same  moment,  without  the  slightest  visible 
exertion,  would  cover  the  whole  of  it  with  her  bravery, 
338 


The  Tyrants 

the    graceful    folds   seeming    to  lay   themselves   over    it 
h'ke  summer  waves. 

The  descent  from  her  carriage,  too,  where  she  sat 
like  a  nautilus  in  its  shell,  was  a  display  which  no  one 
in  these  days  could  accomplish  or  even  fancy.  The 
mulberry-coloured  coach,  spacious,  but  apparently  not 
too  large  for  what  it  carried  —  though  she  alone  was  in 
it;  the  handsome,  jolly  coachman  and  his  splendid 
hammercloth  loaded  with  lace ;  the  two  respectful  liveried 
footmen,  one  on  each  side  of  the  richly-carpeted  step; 
these  were  lost  sight  of  amidst  the  slow  majesty  with 
which  the  lady  came  down  and  touched  the  earth. 
She  presided,  in  this  imperial  style,  over  her  sons' 
excellent  dinners,  with  great  sense  and  spirit,  to  the 
very  last  day  almost  of  a  prolonged  life. 

Lady  Don  (who  lived  in  George  Square)  was  still  more 
highly  bred,  as  was  attested  by  her  polite  cheerfulness 
and  easy  elegance. 

The  venerable  faded  beauty,  the  white  well-coiled  hair, 
the  soft  hand  sparkling  with  old  brilliant  rings,  the  kind 
heart,  the  affectionate  manner,  the  honest,  gentle  voice, 
and  the  mild  eye,  account  for  the  love  with  which  her 
old  age  was  surrounded.  She  was  about  the  last  person 
(so  far  as  I  recollect)  in  Edinburgh  who  kept  a  private 
sedan  chair.  Hers  stood  in  the  lobby,  and  was  as 
handsome  and  comfortable  as  silk,  velvet,  and  gilding 
could  make  it.  And,  when  she  wished  to  use  it,  the 
well-known,  respectable  chair-men,  enveloped  in  her 
livery  cloaks,  were  the  envy  of  their  brethren.  She  and 
Mrs.  Rochead  both  sat  in  the  Tron  Church ;  and  well 
do  I  remember  how  I  used  to  form  one  of  the  cluster 
that  always  took  its  station  to  see  these  beautiful  relics 
emerge  from  the  coach  and  the  chair. 

Lord  Cockburn 

339 


The  Ladies'  Pageant 


The  Old  Scottish  Ladies          ^y       ^>       ^y       -Qy 

THIS  is  a  masterly  description  of  a  race  now  all  but 
passed  away.  I  have  known  several  of  them  in 
my  early  days ;  and  amongst  them  we  must  look  for  the 
racy  Scottish  peculiarities  of  diction  and  of  expression 
which,  with  them,  are  also  nearly  gone.  Lord  Cockburn 
has  given  some  illustrations  of  these  peculiarities ;  and  I 
have  heard  others,  especially  connected  with  Jacobite 
partialities,  of  which  I  say  nothing,  as  they  are  in  fact 
rather  strong  for  such  an  occasion  as  the  present.  One, 
however,  I  heard  lately  as  coming  from  a  Forfarshire  old 
lady  of  this  class,  which  bears  upon  the  point  of  "  resolute  " 
determination  referred  to  in  Lord  Cockburn's  description. 
She  had  been  very  positive  in  the  disclaiming  of  some 
assertion  which  had  been  attributed  to  her,  and  on  being 
asked  if  she  had  not  written  it,  or  something  very  like  it, 
she  replied,-  "Na,  na;  I  never  write  onything  of  con- 
sequence —  I  may  deny  what  I  say,  but  I  canna  deny 
what  I  write." 

Mrs.  Baird  of  Newbyth,  the  mother  of  our  distinguished 
countryman  the  late  General  Sir  David  Baird,  was  always 
spoken  of  as  a  grand  specimen  of  the  class.  When  the 
news  arrived  from  India  of  the  gallant  but  unfortunate 
action  of  '84  against  Hyder  Ali,  in  which  her  son,  then 
Captain  Baird,  was  engaged,  it  was  stated  that  he  and 
other  officers  had  been  taken  prisoners  and  chained 
together  two  and  two.  The  friends  were  careful  in 
breaking  such  sad  intelligence  to  the  mother  of  Captain 
Baird.  When,  however,  she  was  made  fully  to  under- 
stand the  position  of  her  son  and  his  gallant  companions, 
disdaining  all  weak  and  useless  expressions  of  her  own 
grief,  and  knowing  well  the  restless  and  athletic  habits 
34° 


The  Tyrants 

of  her  son,  all  she  said  was,  "  Lord  pity  the  chiel  that's 
chained  to  our  Davy."  * 

The  ladies  of  this  class  had  certainly  no  affectation  in 
speaking  of  those  who  came  under  their  displeasure,  even 
when  life  and  death  were  concerned.  I  had  an  anecdote 
illustrative  of  this  characteristic,  in  a  well-known  old  lady 
of  the  last  century,  Miss  Johnstone  of  Westerhall.  She 
had  been  extremely  indignant  that,  on  the  death  of  her 
brother,  his  widow  had  proposed  to  sell  off  the  old  furniture 
of  Westerhall.  She  was  attached  to  it  from  old  associa- 
tions, and  considered  the  parting  with  it  little  short  of 
sacrilege.  The  event  was,  however,  arrested  by  death, 
or,  as  she  describes  the  result,  "  The  furniture  was  a1  to 
be  roupit,  and  we  couldna  persuade  her.  But  before  the 
sale  cam1  on,  in  God's  gude  providence,  she  just  clinkit 
aff  hersell."  Of  this  same  Miss  Johnstone,  another 
characteristic  anecdote  has  been  preserved  in  the  family. 
She  came  into  possession  of  Hawkhill,  near  Edinburgh, 
and  died  there.  When  dying,  a  tremendous  storm  of 
rain  and  thunder  came  on,  so  as  to  shake  the  house.  In 
her  own  quaint  eccentric  spirit,  and  with  no  thought  of 
profane  or  light  allusions,  she  looked  up,  and,  listening 
to  the  storm,  quietly  remarked,  in  reference  to  her 
departure,  "  Ech,  sirs !  what  a  night  for  me  to  be  fleeing 
through  the  air !  " 

A  recorded  reply  of  old  Lady  Perth  to  a  French  gentle- 
man is  quaint  and  characteristic.  They  had  been 
discussing  the  respective  merits  of  the  cookery  of  each 
country.  The  Frenchman  offended  the  old  Scottish 
peeress  by  some  disparaging  remarks  on  Scottish  dishes, 

l  It  is  but  due  to  the  memory  of  "  our  Davy "  to  state  that 
"the  chiel"  to  whom  he  was  chained,  in  writing  home  to  his 
friends,  bore  high  testimony  to  the  kindness  and  consideration 
with  which  he  was  treated  by  Captain  Baird. 

341 


The  Ladies'  Pageant 

and  by  highly  preferring  those  of  France.  All  she  would 
answer  was,  "  Weel,  weel,  some  fowk  like  parritch,  and 
some  like  paddocks."1 

Dean  Ramsay 


Miss  MacNabb  "^       "O       ^y       <^>       <^y 

ABOUT  the  beginning  of  the  present  century,  the 
then  Campbell,  of  Combie,  on  Loch  Awe  side,  in 
Argyleshire,  was  a  man  of  extraordinary  character,  and 
of  great  physical  strength,  and  such  swiftness  of  foot 
that  it  is  said  he  could  "catch  the  best  tup  on  the  hill." 
He  also  looked  upon  himself  as  a  "  pretty  man,"  though 
in  this  he  was  singular ;  also,  it  was  more  than  whispered 
that  the  laird  was  not  remarkable  for  his  principles  of 
honesty.  There  also  lived  in  the  same  district  a  Miss 
MacNabb  of  Bar-a'-Chaistril,  a  lady  who,  before  she  had 
passed  the  zenith  of  life,  had  never  been  remarkable  for 
her  beauty  —  the  contrary  even  had  passed  into  a  proverb 
while  she  was  in  her  teens ;  but,  to  counterbalance  this 
defect  in  external  qualities,  nature  had  endowed  her  with 
great  benevolence,  while  she  was  renowned  for  her 
probity.  One  day  the  Laird  of  Combie,  who  piqued 
himself  on  his  bon-mots,  was,  as  frequently  happened,  a 
guest  of  Miss  MacNabb's,  and  after  dinner  several  toasts 
had  gone  round  as  usual,  Combie  addressed  his  hostess, 
and  requested  an  especial  bumper,  insisting  on  all  the 
guests  to  fill  to  the  brim.  He  then  rose,  and  said, 
addressing  himself  to  Miss  MacNabb,  "  I  propose  the  old 
Scottish  toast  of '  Honest  men  and  bonnie  lassies,'"  and 
bowing  to  the  hostess,  he  resumed  his  seat.  The  lady 
returned  his  bow  with  her  usual  amiable  smile,  and 

i  Frogs. 
342 


The  Tyrants 

taking  up  her  glass,  replied,  "  Weel,  Combie,  I  am  sure 
we  may  drink  that,  for  it  will  neither  apply  to  you  nor 
me." 

Dean  Ramsay 


Miss  Helen  Carnegy     ^>       <^       ^v       *^>-       *^ 

MISS  HELEN  CARNEGY  of  Craigo  was  a  thorough 
specimen  of  this  class  of  old  Scottish  ladies.  She 
lived  in  Montrose,  and  died  in  1818,  at  the  advanced  age 
of  91.  She  was  a  Jacobite,  and  very  aristocratic  in  her 
feelings,  but  on  social  terms  with  many  burghers  of 
Montrose,  or  Munross,  as  it  was  called.  She  preserved 
a  very  nice  distinction  of  addresses,  suited  to  different 
individuals  in  the  town,  according  as  she  placed  them 
in  the  scale  of  her  consideration.  She  liked  a  party  at 
quadrille,  and  sent  out  her  servant  every  morning  to 
invite  the  ladies  required  to  make  up  the  game,  and  her 
directions  were  graduated  thus  —  "Nelly,  ye1!!  ging  to 
Lady  Carnegy's  and  mak  my  compliments,  and  ask  the 
honour  of  her  ladyship's  company,  and  that  of  the  Miss 
Carnegies,  to  tea  this  evening ;  and  if  they  canna  come, 
ging  to  the  Miss  Mudies,  and  ask  the  pleasure  of  their 
company ;  and  if  they  canna  come,  ye  may  ging  to  Miss 
Hunter  and  ask  the  favour  of  her  company ;  and  if  she 
canna  come,  ging  to  Lucky  Spark  and  bid  her  come." 

A  great  confusion  existed  in  the  minds  of  some  of  those 
old-fashioned  ladies  on  the  subject  of  modern  inventions 
and  usages.  A  Montrose  old  lady  protested  against  the 
use  of  steam-vessels,  as  counteracting  the  decrees  of 
Providence  in  going  against  wind  and  tide,  vehemently 
asserting,  "  I  would  hae  naething  to  say  to  thae  impious 
vessels."  Another  lady  was  equally  discomposed  by  the 
343 


The   Ladies'  Pageant 

introduction  of  gas,  asking  with  much  earnestness, 
"What's  to  become  o'  the  puir  whales?"  deeming  their 
interests  materially  affected  by  this  superseding  of  their 
oil.  A  lady  of  this  class,  who  had  long  lived  in  country 
retirement,  coming  up  to  Edinburgh,  was,  after  an 
absence  of  many  years,  going  along  Princes  Street  about 
the  time  when  the  water-carts  were  introduced  for  pre- 
venting the  dust,  and  seeing  one  of  them  passing,  rushed 
from  off  the  pavement  to  the  driver,  saying,  "  Man,  ye're 
skailitf  a1  the  water."  Such  being  her  ignorance  of 
modern  improvements. 

There  is  a  point  and  originality  in  the  expressions  on 
common  matters  of  the  old  Scottish  ladies,  unlike  what 
one  finds  now;  for  example:  A  country  minister  had 
been  invited,  with  his  wife,  to  dine  and  spend  the  night 
at  the  house  of  one  of  his  lairds.  Their  host  was  very 
proud  of  one  of  the  very  large  beds  which  had  just  come 
into  fashion,  and  in  the  morning  asked  the  lady  how  she 
had  slept  in  it.  "  O  vary  well,  sir;  but,  indeed,  I  thought 
I'd  lost  the  minister  athegither." 

Nothing,  however,  in  my  opinion-  comes  up  to  the 
originality  and  point  of  the  Montrose  old  maiden  lady's 
most  "  exquisite  reason  "  for  not  subscribing  to  the  pro- 
posed fund  for  organising  a  volunteer  corps  in  that  town. 
It  was  at  the  time  of  expected  invasion  at  the  beginning 
of  the  century,  and  some  of  the  town  magistrates  called 
upon  her  and  solicited  her  subscription  to  raise  men  for 
the  service  of  the  king  —  "  Indeed,"  she  answered  right 
sturdily,  "  Til  dae  nae  sic  thing  ;  I  ne'er  could  raise  a 
man  for  my  sell,  and  I'm  no  gaen  to  raise  men  for  King 
George." 

Some  curious  stories  are  told  of  ladies  of  this  class,  as 
connected  with  the  novelties  and  excitement  of  railway 
travelling.  Missing  their  luggage,  or  finding  that  some- 

344 


The  Tyrants 

thing  has  gone  wrong  about  it,  often  causes  very  terrible 
distress,  and  might  be  amusing,  were  it  not  to  the  sufferer 
so  severe  a  calamity.  I  was  much  entertained  with  the 
earnestness  of  this  feeling,  and  the  expression  of  it  from 
an  old  Scotch  lady,  whose  box  was  not  forthcoming  at 
the  station  where  she  was  to  stop.  When  urged  to  be 
patient,  her  indignant  exclamation  was  —  "I  can  bear 
ony  pairtings  that  may  be  ca'ed  for  in  God's  providence ; 
but  I  canna  stan'  pairtin1  frae  ma  claes." 

The  following  anecdote  from  the  west  exhibits  a  curious 
confusion  of  ideas  arising  from  the  old-fashioned  prejudice 
against  Frenchmen  and  their  language,  which  existed  in 
the  last  generation.  During  the  long  French  war,  two 
old  ladies  in  Stranraer  were  going  to  the  kirk ;  the  one 
said  to  the  other,  "  Was  it  no  a  wonderfu'  thing  that  the 
Breetish  were  aye  victorious  ower  the  French  in  battle?" 
"  Not  a  bit,"  said  the  other  old  lady,  "  dinna  ye  ken  the 
Breetish  aye  say  their  prayers  before  ga'in  into  battle  ?  " 
The  other  replied,  "  But  canna  the  French  say  their 
prayers  as  weel  ?  "  The  reply  was  most  characteristic, 
"  Hoot !  jabbering  bodies,  wha  could  under  start  them  ?  " 

Dean  Ramsay 


Lady  Holland     ^>       ^>       ^       *o       <^       <^y 

I 

SHE  was   a  very  strange  woman,    whose   character  it 
would  not  be  easy  to  describe,  and  who  can  only  be 
perfectly  understood  from  a  knowledge  and  consideration 
of  her  habits  and  peculiarities.     She  was  certainly  clever, 
and  she  had  acquired  a  great  deal  of  information  both 
from    books    and    men,    having     passed    her    whole    life 
amidst    people    remarkable    for  their  abilities  and  know- 
345 


The  Ladies'  Pageant 

ledge.  She  cared  very  little  for  her  children,  but  she 
sometimes  pretended  to  care  for  them,  and  she  also 
pretended  to  entertain  strong  feelings  of  friendship  for 
many  individuals  ;  and  this  was  not  all  insincerity,  for,  in 
fact,  she  did  entertain  them  as  strongly  as  her  nature 
permitted.  She  was  often  capricious,  tyrannical,  and 
troublesome,  liking  to  provoke,  and  disappoint,  and 
thwart  her  acquaintances,  and  she  was  often  obliging, 
good-natured,  and  considerate  to  the  same  people.  To 
those  who  were  ill  and  suffering,  to  whom  she  could  show 
any  personal  kindness  and  attention,  among  her  intimate 
friends,  she  never  failed  to  do  so.  She  was  always 
intensely  selfish,  dreading  solitude  above  everything,  and 
eternally  working  to  enlarge  the  circle  of  her  society, 
and  to  retain  all  who  ever  came  within  it.  She  could 
not  live  alone  for  a  single  minute ;  she  never  was  alone, 
and  even  in  her  moments  of  greatest  grief  it  was  not  in 
solitude  but  in  society  that  she  sought  her  consolation. 
Her  love  and  habit  of  domination  were  botH  unbounded, 
and  they  made  her  do  strange  and  often  unwarrantable 
things.  None  ever  lived  who  assumed  such  privileges 
as  Lady  Holland,  and  the  docility  with  which  the  world 
submitted  to  her  vagaries  was  wonderful.  Though  she 
was  eternally  surrounded  with  clever  people,  there  was 
no  person  of  any  position  in  the  world,  no  matter  how 
frivolous  and  foolish,  whose  acquaintance  she  was  not 
eager  to  cultivate,  and  especially  latterly  she  had  a  rage 
for  knowing  new  people  and  going  to  fresh  houses. 
Though  often  capricious  and  impertinent  she  was  never 
out  of  temper,  and  she  bore  with  good  humour  and 
calmness  the  indignant  and  resentful  outbreaks  which 
she  sometimes  provoked  in  others,  and  though  she  liked  to 
have  people  at  her  orders  and  who  would  defer  to  her,  and 
obey  her,  she  both  liked  and  respected  those  who  were 
346 


The  Tyrants 

not  afraid  of  her,  and  who  treated  her  with  spirit  and 
freedom.  Although  she  was  known  to  be  wholly  destitute 
of  religious  opinions,  she  never  encouraged  any  irreligious 
talk  in  her  house.  She  never  herself  spoke  disrespect- 
fully or  with  levity  of  any  of  the  institutions  or  opinions 
which  other  people  were  accustomed  to  reverence,  nor 
did  she  at  any  time,  even  during  periods  of  the  greatest 
political  violence,  suffer  any  disloyal  language  towards 
the  sovereign,  nor  encourage  any  fierce  philippics,  still 
less  any  ribaldry  against  political  opponents.  It  was  her 
great  object,  while  her  society  was  naturally  and  inevit- 
ably of  a  particular  political  colour,  to  establish  in  it 
such  a  tone  of  moderation  and  general  toleration  that  no 
person  of  any  party,  opinion,  profession,  or  persuasion 
might  feel  any  difficulty  in  coming  to  her  house,  and  she 
took  care  that  no  one  who  did  should  ever  have  reason 
to  complain  of  being  offended  or  annoyed,  still  less 
shocked  or  insulted  under  her  roof.  Never  was  anybody 
more  invariably  kind  to  her  servants,  or  more  solicitous 
for  their  comfort.  In  this  probably  selfish  considerations 
principally  moved  her ;  it  was  essential  to  her  comfort  to 
be  diligently  and  zealously  served,  and  she  secured  by  her 
conduct  to  them  their  devoted  attachment.  It  used  often 
to  be  said  in  joke  that  they  were  very  much  better  off 
than  her  guests. 

Charles  Greville 


II 

I   MET   Lady    Holland    again   on   Thursday    at    Lord 
Sefton's.     She  began  by  complaining    of   the    slip- 
periness  of  the  courtyard,  and  of  the  danger  of  her  horses 
falling ;  to  which  Sefton  replied  that  it  should  be  gravelled 
the  next  time  she  did  him  the  honour  of  dining  there.     She 
347 


The  Ladies'  Pageant 

then  began  to  sniff,  and.  turning  her  eyes  to  various  pots 
filled  with  beautiful  roses  and  all  kinds  of  flowers,  she 
said :  —  "  Lord  Sefton,  I  must  beg  of  you  to  have  those 
flowers  taken  out  of  the  room,  they  are  so  much  too 
powerful  for  me."  Sefton  and  his  valet  Paoli  actually 
carried  the  table  and  all  its  contents  out  of  the  room. 
Then  poor  dear  little  Ly.  Sefton,  who  has  always  a 
posy  as  large  as  life  at  her  breast  when  she  is  dressed, 
took  it  out  in  the  humblest  manner  and  said :  —  "  Perhaps, 
Lady  Holland,  this  nosegay  may  be  too  much  for  you." 
But  the  other  was  pleased  to  allow  her  to  keep  it,  tho' 
by  no  means  in  a  very  gracious  manner.  Then  when 
candles  were  lighted  at  the  close  of  dinner,  she  would 
have  three  of  them  put  out,  as  being  too  much  or  too 
near  her.  Was  there  ever  ? 

Thomas  Creevey 


348 


XXX 

DEAD    LADIES 

DEAR  dead  women,  with  such  hair  too, 

What's  become  of  all  the  gold 
Used  to  hang  and  touch  their  bosoms  ? 

I  feel  chilly  and  grown  old. 

R.  Browning 

To  my  ninth  decade  I  have  totter'd  on, 

And  no  soft  arm  bends  now  my  steps  to  steady ; 

She,  who  once  led  me  where  she  would,  is  gone, 
So  when  he  calls  me,  Death  shall  find  me  ready. 

W.  S.  Landor 

Ballade  of  Dead  Ladies        <^        ^        <^        < 

NAY,  tell  me  now  in  what  strange  air 
The  Roman  Flora  dwells  to-day. 
Where  Archippiada  hides,  and  where 
Beautiful  Thais  has  passed  away  ? 
Whence  answers  Echo,  afield,  astray, 
By  mere  or  stream,  —  around,  below  ? 
Lovelier  she  than  a  woman  of  clay  ; 
Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow? 

Where  is  wise  Heloise,  that  care 
Brought  on  Abeilard,  and  dismay  ? 
All  for  her  love  he  found  a  snare, 
A  maimed  poor  monk  in  orders  grey ; 
349 


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And  where's  the  Queen  who  willed  to  slay 
Buridan,  that  in  a  sack  must  go 
Afloat  down  Seine,  —  a  perilous  way  — 
Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow? 

Where's  that  White  Queen,  a  lily  rare, 
With  her  sweet  song,  the  Siren's  lay  ? 
Where's  Bertha  Broad-foot,  Beatrice  fair? 
Alys  and  Ermengarde,  where  are  they? 
Good  Joan,  whom  English  did  betray 
In  Rouen  town,  and  burned  her?     No, 
Maiden  and  Queen,  no  man  may  say ; 
Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow? 

ENVOY 

Prince,  all  this  week  thou  need'st  not  pray, 
Nor  yet  this  year  the  thing  to  know. 
One  burden  answers,  ever  and  aye, 
"  Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow  ?  " 

Franqois  Villon  (translated  by  Andrew  Lang) 

Claudia  Homoncea        *c^       ^>       *o       *o       -^y 

I,  HOiMONCEA,  who  was  far  clearer-voiced  than  the 
Sirens,  I  who  was  more  golden  than  the  Cyprian 
herself  at  revellings  and  feasts,  I  the  chattering  bright 
swallow  lie  here,  leaving  tears  to  Atimetus,  to  whom 
I  was  dear  from  girlhood ;  but  unforeseen  fate  scattered 
all  that  great  affection  of  childbirth.  How  old  ?  Two- 
and-twenty.  And  childless  ?  Nay,  but  I  left  a  three- 
year-old  Calliteles  —  may  he  live  at  least  and  come  to  a 
great  old  age.  And  to  thee,  O  stranger,  may  Fortune 
give  all  prosperity. 

/.  W.  Mackail  (from  the  Greek  Anthology} 
35° 


Dead   Ladies 


Elizabeth  L.  H. 


WOULD'ST  thou  hear  what  man  can  say 
In  a  little?     Reader,  stay. 
Underneath  this  stone  doth  lie 
As  much  Beauty  as  could  die : 
Which  in  life  did  harbour  give 
To  more  Virtue  than  doth  live. 
If  at  all  she  had  a  fault, 
Be  sure  it's  buried  in  this  vault. 
One  name  was  Elizabeth, 
The  other,  let  it  sleep  with  death : 
Fitter,  where  it  died,  to  tell 
Than  that  it  lived  at  all.     Farewell! 

Ben  Jonson 


Margaret  Ratcliffe         x^       -^       *o       *c>       ^^ 

MARBLE,  weep,  for  thou  dost  cover 
A  dead  beautie  underneath  thee, 
^?ich  as  nature  could  bequeath  thee  : 
Grant  then,  no  rude  hand  remove  her. 

All  the  gazers  on  the  skies 
V?ead  not  in  faire  Heaven's  storie, 
.Sxpresser  truth,  or  truer  glorie, 
TTian  they  might  in  her  bright  eyes. 

.flare  as  wonder  was  her  wit, 
And,  like  nectar,  ever  flowing : 
Till  time,  strong  by  her  bestowing. 
Conquered  hath  both  life  and  it. 
351 


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Life  whose  grief  was  out  of  fashion 
/n  these  times  ;  fewe  have  rued 
^ate  in  a  brother.     To  conclude, 
for  wit,  feature,  and  true  passion, 
£arth,  thou  hast  not  such  another. 

Ben  Jonson 


Margaret 


IN  shells  and  gold,  pearls  are  not  kept  alone, 
A  Margaret  here  lies  beneath  a  stone ; 
A  Margaret  that  did  excel  in  worth 
All  those  rich  gems  the  Indies  both  send  forth ; 
Who,  had  she  liv'd  when  good  was  lov'd  of  men, 
Had  made  the  Graces  four,  the  Muses  ten, 
And  forc'd  those  happy  times  her  days  that  clainVd 
From  her  to  be  the  age  of  pearl  still  nam'd. 
She  was  the  richest  jewel  of  her  kind, 
Grac'd  with  more  lustre  than  she  left  behind, 
All  goodness,  virtue,  bounty,  and  could  cheer 
The  saddest  minds.     Now  Nature,  knowing  here 
How  things  but  shown,  then  hidden,  are  lov'd  best, 
This  Margaret  shrin'd  in  this  marble  chest. 

William  Drummond  of  Haivthornden 

Lady  .Marie         x^**       xv^       x^^       xc^><       x^^*       x^^ 

MARIE,  Incarnate,  Soule  and  Skin 
Both  pure,  whom   Death  not  Life  convinced  of 

Sin, 

Had  Daughters  like  seven  Pleiades  ;  but  She 
Was  a  prime  Star  of  greatest  Claritie. 

William  Strode 
352 


Dead  Ladies 


Mrs.  Mary  Neudham     ^y       <^y       ^y       -o       < 

AS  sinn  makes  gross  the  soule  and  thickens  it 
To  fleshly  dulness,  so  the  spotless  white 
Of  Virgin  pureness  made  thy  flesh  as  cleere 
As  other  soules :  thou  could'st  not  tarry  heere 
All  soule  in  both  parts ;  and  what  could  it  bee 
The  Resurrection  could  bestow  on  thee, 
Allready  glorious?  thine  Innocence. 
(Thy  better  shroude)  sent  thee  as  pure  from  hence 
As  saints  shall  rise :  but  Hee  whose  bounty  may 
Enlighten  the  greate  sunn  with  double  day, 
And  make  it  more  outshine  itselfe  than  now 
It  can  the  moone,  shall  crowne  thy  varnish'd  brow 
With  light  above  the  sunn :  when  thou  shalt  bee 
No  lower  in  thy  place  than  majesty : 
Crown'd  with  a  Virgin's  wreath,  outshining  there 
The  Saints  as  much  as  thou  did'st  mortals  heere. 
Bee  this  thy  hope  ;  and  whilst  thy  ashes  ly 
Asleepe  in  death,  dreame  of  Eternity. 

William  Strode 


Lady  Mary  Villiers        ^y       *o       "^y       "Cv 

'"pHE  Lady  Mary  Villiers  lies 
-L      Under  this  stone  :  with  weeping  eyes 
The  parents  that  first  gave  her  birth, 
And  their  sad  friends,  laid  her  in  earth. 
If  any  of  them,  Reader,  were 
Known  unto  thee,  shed  a  tear ; 
Or  if  thyself  possess  a  gem 
As  dear  to  thee  as  this  to  them, 
2A  353 


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Though  a  stranger  to  this  place. 
Bewail  in  theirs  thine  own  hard  case, 
For  thou,  perhaps,  at  thy  return 
Mayst  find  thy  darling  in  an  urn. 

Thomas  Carew 


Anne  Walton        *o       ^^       *cy       ^>       *^»,       <^ 

HERE  lieth  buried  as  much  as  could  die  of  Anne,  the 
Wife  of  Izaak  Walton,  a  woman  of  remarkable  pru- 
dence, and  of  a  primitive  piety ;  her  great  and  general  know- 
ledge being  adorned  with  such  true  humility,  and  chastened 
with  so  much  Christian  meekness,  as  made  her  worthy  of  a 
more  memorable  monument. 

She  died  (alas,  that  she  is  dead!)  the  i/th  of  April,  1662, 
aged  53. 

Study  to  be  like  her. 

Epitaph  in  Worcester  Cathedral 


Mrs.  Margaret  Paston  x;o       *^>       *o       <i*       < 

SO  fair,  so  young,  so  innocent,  so  sweet,  1 
So  ripe  a  judgment,  and  so  rare  a  wit,  I 
Require  at  least  an  age  in  one  to  meet. 
In  her  they  met ;  but  long  they  could  not  stay, 
'Twas  gold  too  fine  to  mix  without  allay. 
Heaven's  image  was  in  her  so  well  exprest, 
Her  very  sight  upbraided  all  the  rest ; 
Too  justly  ravish'd  from  an  age  like  this, 
Now  she  is  gone,  the  world  is  of  a  piece. 

John  Dry  den 
354 


Dead  Ladies 


Mrs.  Corbet 


HERE  rests  a  woman,  good  without  pretence, 
Bless'd  with  plain  reason,  and  with  sober  sense 
No  conquests  she  but  o'er  herself  desir'd, 
No  arts  essay'd  but  not  to  be  admir'd. 
Passion  and  pride  were  to  her  soul  unknown, 
Convinc'd  that  virtue  only  is  her  own. 
So  unaffected,  so  compos'd  a  mind, 
So  firm,  yet  soft,  so  strong,  yet  so  refin'd  ; 
Heav'n,  as  its  purest  gold,  by  tortures  try'd  ; 
The  saint  sustain'd  it,  but  the  woman  died. 

A.  Pope 


Ternissa  <^y       <^y       <^       <^y       <>x       -o 

T^ERNISSA!  you  are  fled! 
-*-      I  say  not  to  the  dead, 
But  to  the  happy  ones  who  are  below : 

For,  surely,  surely,  where 

Your  voice  and  graces  are, 
Nothing  of  death  can  any  feel  or  know. 

Girls  who  delight  to  dwell 

Where  grows  most  asphodel, 
Gather  to  their  calm  breasts  each  word  you  speak : 

The  wild  Persephone 

Places  you  on  her  knee 

And  your  cool  palm  smoothes  down  stern  Pluto's  cheek. 

W.  S.  Landor 


The  Ladies'  Pageant 


Rose  Aylmer 


Hester 


AH !  what  avails  the  sceptred  race, 
Ah!  what  the  form  divine! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace ! 
Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 
Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 
I  consecrate  to  thee. 

W.  S.  Landor 


WHEN  maidens  such  as  Hester  die 
Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try 

With  vain  endeavour. 
A  month  or  more  hath  she  been  dead, 
Yet  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed 
And  her  together. 

A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 

A  rising  step,  did  indicate 

Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate 

That  flush'd  her  spirit. 
I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call :  —  if  'twas  not  pride, 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied, 

She  did  inherit. 
356 


Dead  Ladies 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule, 
Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool ; 
But  she  was  train'd  in  Nature's  school, 

Nature  had  blest  her. 
A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind ; 
A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind ; 
A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind, 

Ye  could  not  Hester. 

My  sprightly  neighbour,  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 
Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore, 

Some  summer  morning, 
When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 
A  sweet  forewarning  ? 

Charles  Lamb 


Under  the  Violets 


HER  hands  are  cold  ;  her  face  is  white ; 
No  more  her  pulses  come  and  go  ; 
Her  eyes  are  shut  to  life  and  light :  — 
Fold  the  white  vesture,  snow  on  snow, 
And  lay  her  where  the  violets  blow. 

But  not  beneath  a  graven  stone, 
To  plead  for  tears  with  alien  eyes ; 
A  slender  cross  of  wood  alone 
Shall  say,  that  here  a  maiden  lies, 
In  peace  beneath  the  peaceful  skies. 
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And  gray  old  trees  of  hugest  limb 
Shall  wheel  their  circling  shadows  round 
To  make  the  scorching  sunlight  dim 
And  drink  the  greenness  from  the  ground, 
And  drop  their  dead  leaves  on  her  mound. 

When  o'er  their  boughs  the  squirrels  run, 
And  through  their  leaves  the  robins  call, 
And,  ripening  in  the  autumn  sun, 
The  acorns  and  the  chestnuts  fall, 
Doubt  not  that  she  will  heed  them  all. 

For  her  the  mourning  choir  shall  sing 
Its  matins  from  the  branches  high 
And  every  minstrel  voice  of  Spring, 
That  trills  beneath  the  April  sky, 
Shall  greet  her  with  its  earliest  cry. 

When,  turning  round  their  dial-track, 
Eastward  the  lengthening  shadows  pass, 
Her  little  mourner,  clad  in  black, 
The  cricket,  sliding  through  the  grass, 
Shall  pipe  for  her  an  evening  mass. 

At  last  the  rootlets  of  the  trees 
Shall  find  the  prison  where  she  lies, 
And  bear  the  buried  dust  they  seize 
In  leaves  and  blossoms  to  the  skies. 
So  may  the  soul  that  warmed  it  rise ! 

If  any,  born  of  kindlier  blood, 
Should  ask,  what  maiden  lies  below? 
Say  only  this  :  A  tender  bud, 
That  tried  to  blossom  in  the  snow, 
Lies  withered  where  the  violets  blow. 

O.  W.  Holmes 
358 


Dead  Ladies 


My  Kate 


SHE  was  not  as  pretty  as  women  I  know, 
And  yet  all  your  best  made  of  sunshine  and  snow 
Drop  to  shade,  melt  to  nought  in  the  long-trodden  ways, 
While  she's  still  remembered  on  warm  and  cold  days  — 
My  Kate. 


Her  hair  had  a  meaning,  her  movements  a  grace ; 
You  turned  from  the  fairest  to  gaze  on  her  face  : 
And  when  you  had  once  seen  her  forehead  and  mouth, 
You  saw  as  distinctly  her  soul  and  her  truth  — 
My  Kate. 

Such  a  blue  inner  light  from  her  eyelids  outbroke, 
You  looked  at  her  silence  and  fancied  she  spoke  : 
When  she  did,  so  peculiar  yet  soft  was  the  tone, 
Though  the  loudest  spoke  also,  you  heard  her  alone  — 
My  Kate. 

I  doubt  if  she  said  to  you  much  that  could  act 
As  a  thought  or  suggestion :  she  did  not  attract 
In  the  sense  of  the  brilliant  or  wise :  I  infer 
'Twas  her  thinking  of  others,  made  you  think  of  her  — 
My  Kate. 

She  never  found  fault  with  you,  never  implied 
Your  wrong  by  her  right ;  and  yet  men  at  her  side 
Grew  nobler,  girls  purer,  as  through  the  whole  town 
The  children  were  gladder  that  pulled  at  her  gown  — 

My  Kate. 
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The  Ladies'   Pageant 

None  knelt  at  her  feet  confessed  lovers  in  thrall ; 
They  knelt  more  to  God  than  they  used  —  that  was  all : 
If  you  praised  her  as  charming,  some  asked   what   you 

meant, 
But    the    charm    of   her    presence   was    felt  where   she 

went  — 

My  Kate. 


The  weak  and  the  gentle,  the  ribald  and  rude, 
She  took  as  she  found  them,  and  did  them  all  good ; 
It  always  was  so  with  her  —  see  what  you  have! 
She  has  made  the  grass  greener  even  here  .  .  .  with  her 
grave  — 

My  Kate. 

My  dear  one! —  when  thou  wast  alive  with  the  rest, 
I  held  thee  the  sweetest  and  loved  thee  the  best : 
And  now  thou  art  dead,  shall  I  not  take  thy  part, 
As    thy    smiles     used     to     do    for     thyself,    my  'sweet 
Heart  — 

My  Kate? 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 


Charlotte  Locker  ^^       <^       -^>       ^> 

HER  worth,  her  wit,  her  loving  smile, 
Were  with  me  but  a  little  while. 
She  came,  she  went  —  yet,  though  that  voice 
Is  hush'd  that  made  the  heart  rejoice, 
And  though  the  grave  is  dark  and  chill, 
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Dead  Ladies 

Her  memory  is  fragrant  still  — 
She  stands  on  the  Eternal  Hill. 
Here  pause,  kind  soul,  whoe'er  you  be, 
And  weep  for  her  and  pray  for  me. 

Frederick  Locker 


Lady  Louisa  Conolly  <^y       ^y       x^       -^ .      xcv 

BEFORE  the  day  came  when  it  would  be  necessary 
to  place  her  remains  in  the  coffin  the  poor  labourers 
and  others  of  the  town  (Celbridge)  wished  to  be  allowed 
to  see  the  body,  to  which  I,  of  course,  consented.  I 
watched,  from  a  recess  where  I  could  see  without  being 
observed,  the  various  persons  as  they  came  in  singly  and 
went  to  the  bed  where  she  lay,  with  a  countenance  so 
serene,  so  beautiful,  that  you  could  scarce  believe  she 
was  not  alive  !  As  every  poor  person,  after  seeing  her, 
passed  on  to  another  room  and  (not  seeing  me  in  the 
recess)  conceived  himself  alone  and  unobserved,  I  had 
full  opportunity  of  watching  their  natural  feelings ;  and 
if  ever  gratitude  for  benefits  conferred  and  the  deep 
affliction,  nay,  I  may  say  despair,  for  the  loss  of  a  parent 
were  depicted  in  the  countenances  of  any  human  being, 
it  were  so  in  the  countenances  of  these  poor  Irish 
Catholics ! 

One  old  white-headed  man  took  up  her  cold,  lifeless 
hand,  and  kissing  it,  on  his  knees  sobbed  out,  "  Oh, 
my  dear,  my  sweet  lady,  my  long-tried,  my  only  friend, 
why  have  you  left  your  poor  old  creature  to  die  alone? 
You,  that  used  to  come  to  his  bedside  when  he  was  sick, 
and  cheer  him  up  with  your  good  word,  and  give  him 
the  drop  of  soup  and  the  bit  of  meat,  and  tell  him  to 
have  comfort ;  and  now  you're  gone  before  me  after  all ! 
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But  I'll  not  stay  long;  I'll  follow  you,  for  you'll  clear 
the  way  for  a  poor  old  sinner  like  myself,  and  God  will  re- 
ceive me  from  you."  Then  he  crossed  himself,  placed  her 
hand  gently  down,  kissed  it  again,  and  with  his  face  stream- 
ing with  tears,  he  tottered  out  of  the  room. 

Another  much  younger  man,  after  gently  and  in  the 
most  feeling,  delicate,  and  respectful  manner  taking  up 
her  hand  to  kiss,  knelt  down  in  the  attitude  of  prayer, 
and  looking  up  towards  heaven,  with  a  countenance 
bedewed  with  tears  but  full  of  the  most  devotional 
expression,  exclaimed  aloud,  "  The  priest  may  tell  me 
what  he  likes.  He  may  curse  the  heretic,  and  swear 
the  Protestant  goes  not  to  heaven ;  but  neither  priest, 
nor  bishop,  nor  all  the  priests  that  ever  lived,  shall 
persuade  me  that  my  sainted  lady,  that  lies  now  dead 
before  me,  is  not  gone  to  heaven  and  rests  at  peace  in 
the  bosom  of  a  just  and  merciful  God!  No,  no  !  If 
the  soul  of  our  dear,  sweet  Lady  Louisa,  the  poor  man's 
friend  and  comforter,  is  not  gone  to  heaven,  then  there 
is  no  God,  no  mercy  for  the  human  race  !  Protestant, 
Catholic  —  what  is  it  but  a  name  ?  But  look  at  her ; 
look  at  the  tears  of  the  poor,  the  old,  the  young,  the 
infirm  and  helpless  ;  and  —  and  —  tell  me,  ye  priests,  if 
these  are  not  her  passports  to  heaven?  Yes,  you  are 
cold  and  lifeless,  and  hear  not  the  wailings  of  those 
whom  you  cherished  as  your  children ;  but  your  bright 
spirit  is  above,  and  will  look  down  upon  us,  who  have  now 
no  friend  left  since  you  are  gone." 

Various  other  instances  I  saw  of  this  genuine  feeling 
of  love,  gratitude,  and  deep  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  their 
friend  and  benefactress,  who  had  just  closed  a  life  sixty 
years  of  which  had  been  devoted  to  the  poor  of 
Celbridge  and  spent  actually  in  their  society,  for  very 
seldom  was  she  more  than  three  months  out  of  the  year 
362 


Dead   Ladies 

away    from    Castletown,   and    often    for    years    together 
without  ever  being  three  days  away. 

At  last  the  melancholy  morning  came  when  her 
earthly  remains  were  to  be  taken  to  their  last  home. 
As  soon  as  daybreak  appeared  the  people  began  to 
assemble  in  the  park  in  front  of  the  house,  and  by  the 
time  all  was  ready  many  thousands  were  assembled,  for 
the  poor  came  in  numbers  from  every  part  of  the 
county,  and  many  from  other  counties  also,  thirty 
and  forty  miles  off,  so  well  was  she  known  and  so 
highly  beloved  and  lamented.  There  is  a  great  stone 
staircase  leading  up  to  the  hall-door  of  Castletown 
House.  Before  these  steps  the  multitude  were  collected, 
patiently  and  mournfully  waiting  to  see  the  coffin  come 
out.  I  ordered  the  great  door  to  be  thrown  ogen,  and 
the  procession  moved  from  the  hall  towards  the  door. 
The  moment  the  body  appeared  every  hat  was  off,  every 
eye  intently  fixed  upon  the  coffin.  One  long,  loud  cry 
of  despair  issued  from  the  assembled  multitude.  The 
next  instant  all  was  silent  as  death,  and  every  being  on 
their  knees,  their  hands  clasped  in  prayer,  and  their 
heads  bowed  in  submission  to  the  will  of  their  Creator 
who  had  thought  proper  to  strike  this  heavy  blow.  In 
this  attitude  all  remained  till  the  body  reached  the 
bottom  of  the  steps,  and  the  procession  was  again 
formed,  the  Duke  of  Leinster  chief  mourner,  ac- 
companied by  my  brothers  and  myself,  and  all  the 
gentry  for  miles  round,  the  coffin  borne  by  her  own 
labourers,  who  had  begged  "  I  would  not  let  her  be 
placed  in  a  hearse,  but  carried  on  the  shoulders  of  those 
whom  she  supported  in  her  life,  and  who  would  willingly 
have  sacrificed  theirs  to  preserve  hers."  Upon  the  word 
to  move  forward  the  people  rose  from  their  knees ;  again 
issued  foith  that  one  loud  cry  of  grief,  and  we  moved  on 
363 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

without  noise  or  wailing  except  from  the  sobs  of  the 
women  (this  being  so  contrary  to  the  custom  of  the 
Irish  it  made  a  deep  impression  on  us  all).  When  the 
clergyman  met  us  at  the  church  door  and  commenced 
the  burial  service,  again  the  hats  were  off,  and  this 
Catholic  multitude  were  on  their  knees,  in  fervent  sincere 
prayer  for  the  soul  of  their  Protestant  friend.  We  had 
then  to  proceed  a  long  way  through  the  town  to  the  old 
ruined  church  where  the  family  vault  was,  a  deep  silence 
continuing  the  whole  way ;  and  when  arrived,  and  the 
coffin  was  lowered  into  the  tomb,  again  that  thrilling 
cry  was  heard,  but  louder  and  longer  than  ever,  and  a 
general  rush  was  made  to  the  vault,  each  striving  to  get 
a  last  look  at  the  coffin  which  contained  the  remains  of 
one  they  almost  revered  as  a  saint.  My  poor  sister  had 
followed  in  a  carriage,  being  determined  to  go  down  into 
the  vault  before  it  was  closed  and  hid  from  her  for  ever 
the  being  she  most  loved  on  earth.  I  thought  it  would 
be  impossible,  in  the  wretched  state  in  which  she  was, 
to  get  her  through  the  dense  mass  of  people  which 
obstructed  the  way  from  her  carriage  to  the  vault. 
However,  the  moment  I  said,  "  My  friends,  here  is  my 
sister  who  wishes  to  go  and  see  the  last  of  her  aunt ; 
you  all  know  her,  and  how  they  loved  each  other;  I 
know  how  you  pity  and  feel  for  her;  pray  make  way  for 
her  to  pass."  The  reply  was,  "  O  God !  is  it  our  dear 
Miss  Emily?  Oh,  may  the  Great  Father  of  mercy  look 
down  on  you,  you  poor  creature!  Sure  it's  you  that's  to 
be  pitied  afore  us  all.  Make  way  for  the  poor  darling 
child  of  her  we  loved,"  and  in  an  instant  all  was  silent, 
and  a  clear  broad  way  opened  for  her  to  pass  to  the  tomb, 
into  which  she  descended.  After  some  time  I  gently  led 
her  away,  and  ascending  the  steps,  she  again  passed 
through  the  people,  who  had  not  moved  but  waited  her 
364 


Dead  Ladies 

return ;  and  as  she  moved  along  leaning  on  my  arm,  her 
heart  almost  ready  to  burst  with  convulsive  sobs,  they 
tried  to  soothe  and  cheer  her  with  every  endearing 
expression  of  affection,  and  love,  and  gratitude,  calling 
on  her  to  remain  with  them  and  not  leave  Castletown ; 
that  they  had  only  her  left  now,  and  if  she  left  them 
what  was  to  become  of  them  ?  In  short,  I  never  wit- 
nessed such  sorrow,  such  gratitude,  such  respect,  such 
a  display  of  every  kind  feeling  that  is  so  conspicuous  in 
the  Irish  peasant  when  called  forth  by  the  remembrance 
of  kind  and  just  treatment  from  those  in  affluence  and 
above  them  in  society. 

To  be  able  to  judge  of  Lady  Louisa  Conolly's 
character,  and  the  reverence  in  which  she  was  held  by 
the  whole  of  Ireland,  it  was  necessary  to  have  lived  at 
Castletown  during  her  life  and  to  have  witnessed  her 
funeral  after  her  death.  She  had  been  mistress  of 
Castletown  for  sixty-five  years,  the  whole  of  which  long 
period  was  one  continued  scene  of  charity  and  bene- 
volence. Her  manners  were  truly  noble;  no  affected 
condescension,  but  the  plain  simple  sweetness  that 
beamed  in  her  fine  countenance  was  reflected  in  her 
manners,  and  all  derived  their  source  from  the  same 
fountain  of  Christianity  and  meek  humility  which 
sprang  spontaneously  from  her  heart.  I  never  knew  her 
equal ;  neither  did  I  ever  meet  one  who  formed  a  clearer 
or  sounder  judgement  on  all  difficult  questions,  or  was 
more  just  in  her  perception  of  character.  All  the  sen- 
timents and  views  she  has  so  often  expressed  to  me, 
both  of  public  occurrences  and  individual  character  and 
conduct,  have  been  completely  confirmed  in  every 
instance,  and  her  perfect  simplicity  of  religion  and  un- 
bounded tolerance  on  that  subject  were  extraordinary. 
With  regard  to  affection  for  her  friends  and  relations,  it 
365 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 


is  only  necessary  to  say  that  if  misfortune,  sorrow,  or 
difficulty  of  any  kind  happened  to  any  of  them,  Lady 
Louisa  was  at  their  side.  Selfishness  was  what  she  had 
no  idea  of  ;  I  really  do  think  she  could  not  understand 
its  meaning,  so  free  was  she  from  it ;  in  short,  I  can  only 
describe  Lady  Louisa  Conolly's  character  by  saying, 
that  if  it  were  possible  (which  it  is  not)  to  have  the 
counterpart  of  Christ  upon  earth  she  was  His  image. 

Sir  George  T.  Napier 


366 


CONCLUSION 


Alma  Mater 


f~\  MOTHER  EARTH,  by  the  bright  sky  above  thee, 

^-S     I  love  thee,  O,  I  love  thee! 

And  yet  they  say  that  I  must  leave  thee  soon  ; 

And  if  it  must  be  so, 

Then  to  what  sun  or  moon 

Or  star  I  am  to  go, 

Or  planet,  matters  not  for  me  to  know. 

0  Mother  Earth,  by  the  bright  sky  above  thee, 

1  love  thee,  O,  I  love  thee  ! 

O,  whither  will  you  send  me  ? 

O,  wherefore  will  you  rend  me 

From  your  warm  bosom,  mother  mine  ?  — 

I  can't  fix  my  affections 

On  a  state  of  conic  sections, 

And  I  don't  care  how  old  Daedalus 

May  try  to  coax  and  wheedle  us 

With  wings  he  manufactures, 

Sure  to  end  in  compound  fractures, 

Or  in  headers  at  right-angles  to  the  brine  — 

0  Mother  Earth,  by  the  bright  sky  above  thee, 

1  love  thee,  O,  I  love  thee! 

367 


The  Ladies'   Pageant 

I  cannot  leave  thee,  mother: 
I  love  thee,  and  not  another : 
And  1  can't  say  "  man  and  brother  " 
To  a  shadowy  abstraction, 
To  an  uncomfortable  fraction, 
To  the  skeletons  of  quiddities, 
And  similar  stupidities. 
Have  mercy,  mother,  mercy! 
The  unjustest  novercae 
Sometimes  leaves  off  her  snarlings 
At  her  predecessors'  darlings  ; 
And  thou  art  all  my  mother, 
I  know  not  any  other. 

0  Mother  Earth,  by  the  bright  sky  above  thee, 

1  love  thee,  O,  I  love  thee ! 

So  let  me  leave  thee  never, 

And  cling  to  thee  for  ever, 

And  hover  round  thy  mountains, 

And  flutter  round  thy  fountains, 

And  pry  into  thy  roses  fresh  and  red ; 

And  blush  in  all  thy  blushes, 

And  flush  in  all  thy  flushes, 

And  watch  when  thou  art  sleeping, 

And  weep  when  thou  art  weeping, 

And  be  carried  with  thy  motion, 

As  the  rivers  and  the  ocean, 

As  the  great  rocks  and  the  trees  are  — 

And  all  the  things  one  sees  are  — 

O  Mother,  this  were  glorious  life, 

This  were  not  to  be  dead. 

0  Mother  Earth,  by  the  bright  sky  above  thee, 

1  love  thee,  O,  I  love  thee! 

T,  E.  Brown 
368 


POSTSCRIPT 


369 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

1HAVE  to  thank  —  and  do  so  very  warmly — many 
authors  and  publishers  for  allowing  me  to  include 
copyright  extracts  in  this  book:  Mrs.  W.  K.  Clifford  for 
the  description  of  "  Aunt  Anne  "  from  the  novel  of  that 
name  (Macmillan  &  Co.) ;  Mrs.  Hinkson  for  "  The 
Nurse  "  from  her  Collected  Poems  (Lawrence  &  Bullen)  ; 
Mrs.  Henley  for  three  of  W.  E.  Henley's  poems  from  his 
Book  of  Verses  (Nutt)  ;  Mrs.  Eden  for  permission  to  ex- 
tract a  passage  or  two  from  Mrs.  Ewing's  story  Madam 
Liberality  in  A  Great  Emergency  (G.  Bell  &  Sons)  ;  Mrs. 
Payne  Whitney  for  the  late  Colonel  John  Hay's  "  Sister 
Saint  Luke  " ;  the  Earl  of  Crewe  for  Lord  Houghton's  tran- 
script of  Lady  Ashburton's  obiter  from  Monographs ;  Mr. 
H.  G.  Dakyns  and  Mr.  Sidney  Irwin  for  the  four  poems  by 
T.  E.  Brown  (Macmillan  &  Co.)  ;  Mr.  Austin  Dobson  for 
"  A  Gentlewoman  of  the  Old  School "  from  his  Collected 
Poems  (Kegan,  Paul,  &  Co.) ;  Mr.  Alfred  Cochrane  for 
"  Aunt  Caroline  "  from  his  Collected  Verses  (Longmans  & 
Co.)  ;  Mr.  Henry  James  and  the  Houghton  Mifflin  Co.  for 
the  description  of  Mrs.  Procter  from  his  memoir  of 
W.  W.  Story ;  Professor  Mackail  for  translations  from  his 
version  of  the  Greek  Anthology  (Longmans  &  Co.)  ;  Mr. 
Andrew  Lang  for  his  poem  on  Jeanne  d'Arc  from  New 
Collected  Rhymes  and  the  "Ballade  of  Dead  Ladies" 
370 


Acknowledgments 


from  XXXII  Ballades  in  Blue  China  (both  published  by 
Longmans  &  Co.)  ;  Mr.  Joaquin  Miller  for  two  extracts ; 
Mr.  James  Whitcomb  Riley  for  "Old  Aunt  Mary"  and 
"  Grannie  "  ;  Mr.  Lloyd  Osbourne  for  three  of  Stevenson's 
poems  —  two  from  the  Child' 's  Garden  (Longmans  & 
Co.)  and  one  from  the  Poems  (Chatto  &  Windus)  ;  Mr. 
Walter  De  la  Mare  for  "  Juliet's  Nurse  "  from  his  Poems 
(Murray) ;  Mrs.  Locker-Lampson  for  the  description  of 
George  Eliot  and  the  poem  on  the  death  of  Lady  Charlotte 
Locker  from  My  Confidences  (Smith,  Elder,  &  Co.),  and 
"  To  my  Grandmother,"  from  London  Lyrics  (Macmillan 
£  Co.)  ;  Mr.  W.  Whitten  for  his  account  of  Lydia  White  ; 
Messrs.  George  Allen  &  Sons  for  "  Amaturus  "  from  Cory's 
lonica;  Messrs.  Longmans  for  two  extracts  from  the 
Greville  Memoirs  ;  Mr.  John  Murray  for  the  description  of 
Lady  Louisa  Conolly's  death  from  The  Early  Military  Life 
of  Sir  George  Napier  and  also  for  an  account  of  Lady  Hol- 
land from  the  Creevey  Papers ;  Messrs.  Macmillan  for 
three  sonnets  on  Rachel  by  Matthew  Arnold,  Messrs.  Henry 
Holt  and  Co.  for  the  extracts  from  Fanny  Kemble's  Memo- 
ries of  Girlhood  and  Later  Memories;  Messrs.  J.  W. 
Parker  &  Co.  for  an  extract  from  Mr.  F.  W.  Bain's  Digit 
of  the  Moon ;  Messrs.  Burns  &  Gates  for  "  Saint  Zita " 
from  An  Alphabet  of  Saints  ;  and  X.  for  "  A  Thorough- 
Bred,"  now  for  the  first  time  printed. 

To  Mrs.  Sidney  Colvin  and  Miss  M.  C.  G.  Jackson  I 
am  grateful  for  many  suggestions. 


E.  V.  L. 


August,  1908. 


371 


Good-night,   ladies;    good-night,  sweet    ladies:    good- 
Qight,  good-night. 


Hamlet 


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from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


MAR 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  022  760     3 


